LET ER BUCK 




Charles Wellinjfton Furlong 






Class I" 5^7 

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COFiRIGKT DEPOSrr. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

A STORY 
OF THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST 



LET 'ER BUCK 

A STORY OF THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST 



BY 

CHARLES WELLINGTON FURLONG, F.R.G.S. 

AUTHOR OF "THE GATEWAY TO THE BAHARa" 



WITH PIPTT ILLUSTRATIONS TAKEN FROM LIFE 
BY THE AUTHOR AND OTHERS 




G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

^be IknicftcrbocRer ipreea 

1921 






COPYRIGHT, 1921 

BY 

CHARLES AVELLINOTON FURLONG 

Printed in the United States of America 



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SEP 12 7 

0)CI.A622761 



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TO MY SON 
ROGER WELLINGTON FURLONG 

AND 

IN TRIBUTE 

TO THE AMERICAN PIONEER 

THE ADVANCE GUARD OF EUROPE'S LAST FRONTIER 

AND TO THE COWBOY 

THE WEST'S FIRST BORN 

BOTH OF WHOM 

THROUGH AN INTREPID FAITH 

AN UNHAMPERED BELIEF 

HIGH IDEALS AND A DYNAMIC GOGETTEDNESS 

EPITOMIZED THE SPIRIT OF AMERICA 

AND 
CEMENTED THE GREAT NORTHWEST 
INTO OUR NATIONAL BODY POLITIC 



PUTTING ON THE BRAND 

If I had never seen a Umatilla "fuzz-tail," didn't 
know what "bulldogging" meant, and was altogether 
a stranger to the Pacific Northwest — if, I say, such 
misfortunes were mine, yet would I revel in Let 'Er 
Buck, because of the downright dramatic interest of 
the book and its extraordinary illustrations. 

But as I happen to have had the good fortune to 
reside in Oregon for some years, and as I know at 
first-hand somewhat of the range country and its 
people, Let 'Er Buck has found an especially ap- 
preciative publisher. It is truly a breath of the real 
West of yesterday and today, alluring for us in the 
East, inspiring, I am sure, to every reader to whom 
the West means home. 

Charles Wellington Furlong is an ideal author for 
such an epic of the out-of-doors. He knows. He has 
lived the life of which he writes. He has worked 
and played in the cattle country; its people are 
his friends and its ways are his. He understands the 
Round-Up intimately, not only as observer but as 
participant. It violates no secret to state that the buck- 
aroo pictured riding Sharkey, the bull (page 176), is 
Furlong himself; he broke the world's record — and 
his wrist! 



PUTTING ON THE BRAND 

What an adventuresome, varied life our author has 
led! Explorer, painter, writer, university professor, 
lecturer, soldier, publicist! He has painted in Paris 
and been a Professor at Cornell. He has written half 
a dozen successful books and countless magazine arti- 
cles. He has slept in the guanaco skin tents of the 
primitive Patagonians, and has crossed the Atlantic 
in a twenty-two ton schooner. He has lectured on art 
in Boston and fought desert thieves in the Sahara. He 
has ridden with the wild tribesmen of Morocco and 
cow-punched with the Vaqueros of the Venezuelan 
llanos. . . . And naturally he loves the ways of the Old 
West, so gloriously repictured, in action and spirit, 
each year at the Pendleton Round-Up — and loves the 
Round-Up itself, whose story as here recorded be- 
comes a lasting chapter in the history of the well-won 
West. 

Last autumn Furlong and I were automobiling near 
New York City. We talked of Oregon, because we 
both love its mountains, forests, and far-flung grain 
and cattle lands. 

"The Round-Up's a book in itself," said I, remi- 
niscing of Pendleton. 

"Of course," he replied. "And I am going to write 
it. You publish it." 

He did. 

We did. 

There is a very large measure of personal satisfac- 
tion in being associated with this book, and an equal 
pleasure in recalling the characteristically enthusiastic 
support which the project has received from Pendleton 
and her people. . . . And it is a further satisfaction to 
realize that Let 'Er Buck undoubtedly will cause 
many Eastern readers to go West and see for them- 




Photo by Charles Wellington Furlong 

A Fight to a Finish 



PUTTING ON THE BRAND 

selves this wonderful Roiind-Up spectacle — which is 
only another way of predicting their ultimate gratitude 
to author and publisher ! 

G. P. P. 

New York, June, 1921. 



uc 



THE FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE 
AND WHY 

"Sh! — She's asleep!" The tallest, roughest appear- 
ing of five big, hard-boiled looking men raised a quiet 
but warning finger to a newcomer and pointed farther 
down the car. The train was a little freight with a 
passenger annex that runs over the dust-swept plains 
and through some little jerkwater towns of central 
Washington. 

Pretty Miss Virginia had heard the call of the West 
and came. Fatigued by a year of teaching and repres- 
sion in a tight, little sectarian college she was now 
speeding toward freedom and the great outdoors to a 
Western uncle's ranch. 

The newcomer now made the seventh passenger — 
six were men — she was the seventh. Her eyes had 
wearied of the miles of fascinating, desert-looking 
country with no signs of life, except little, timid, crawl- 
ing things that scurried or slunk along through the 
sage brush. But the one thing she had desired the last 
month of her busy year more than anything was sleep 
— so she curled up and — slept. 

When she awoke, the well-worn coat of one of the 
five v/as spread over her, another rolled up, had been 
tucked gently under her head. No one was talking or 
making the slightest sound. At noon the conductor 



FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE 

came, sorry not to be able to offer her a regular lunch, 
but said he would stop the train somewhere and get her 
a cup of tea. When they did stop, each man debouched 
from the freight and brought her something. 

It was warm and dusty, the poor, rickety little car 
had seemed impossible but Miss Virginia obtained a 
new perspective of the real spirit of the West. The 
West, that in many places still feels life is too big to 
give change for a nickel — (all coppers taken in the 
saloon at Ennis were flipped over the mirror top behind 
the bar), the West, where in some places it is still more 
polite to ask a man what he calls himself than what 
his name is, the West where it matters little what a 
man's folks were or to some extent even what he's been 
himself, it's what he is. Miss Virginia had pryed open 
the heart of the West — and this happened today, since 
the first of this book went to press. The reason the 
book has gone to press is threefold. 

To help to preserve one of the most important pages 
of American history — the Winning of the West and 
the part the pioneer and the American cowboy have 
played in it. 

To show the significance of the cowboy contests 
which are fast disappearing, and particularly of that 
passion play of the West, The Round-Up held at Pen- 
dleton, in Eastern Oregon about which country so 
much of the history of the Northwest is wrapped. 

To help to perpetuate and enlarge the ennobling and 
just Spirit of America through the true and positive 
Spirit of the West, that in so doing, we may be ener- 
gized to a greater national consciousness. 

Our Atlantic seaboard is established, our western 
still in the making. Our trade Star of Empire is still 
West, the Far East. Puget Sound and its contiguous 



FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE 

ports will some day be the great western mouth of 
America, one of the greatest trade and transit em- 
poriums of the World, a healthy competitor of, and 
worthy cooperator with, New York. 

America's greatest trade success lies in the Pacific 
and beyond, likewise its greatest problem, its greatest 
danger. America must know its own problems, get 
acquainted with itself, see itself, know itself first, 
adequately to protect and find itself. So too, America 
must also follow and understand the movements of the 
world tides, not just its own political eddies. 

The Great Epic Drama of the West, the Round-Up, 
is but an atomic episode in the modern, forward-mov- 
ing West of today, but a drop of the red blood that 
surges through the great throbbing heart of America, 
but it helps us to understand its pulsing, li there was 
never another rounding-up of the range clans in Pendle- 
ton, its Pageant has already been a rich contribution 
to the Spirit of America. 

There is something in every healthy nature that re- 
sponds to the spectacular and dangerous. When the 
restraints of some artificialities of society are removed, 
certain deep powerful, oft-times long-buried instincts, 
irresistible and unfathomable, assert themselves. It 
were better for the Nation if the blase, effete, lily-liv- 
ered youths, which the complexities and hectic move- 
ment of our modern life tends to develop, learned 
through honorable physical contest the satisfaction of 
a well-balanced body and character, the power of 
self-control, the constructive force of positiveness and 
that joy of spiritual uplift through a frank and sym- 
pathetic contact with Nature and a certain healthy re- 
version to type. 

In this book I have sought to incorporate enough of 
xiii 



FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE 

the early history of Oregon and the West to enable 
me to paint with a broad brush in the simple, primary 
colors of fact, a background which will serve as an 
adequate stage-setting for the, actors and episodes of 
Pendleton's great annual epic. 

I have sought to portray the big, free spirit and sig- 
nificance of range life through type similes, simple in- 
cident and outstanding feature and thus record a verse 
or two of the swan song of the cowboy before his 
range cries die away. 

This book represents the results of some seventeen 
years of close personal study of and participation in 
the life of the range in our West and in the countries 
of South America and also in four annual Round-Ups 
at Pendleton. 

But within these pages, one can but touch upon a few 
of the many stirring performances and present only 
a small portion of that lore and custom linked with 
them. On each of the three days of the Round-Up, 
a lifetime on the frontier is lived in an afternoon. The 
picture drawn here is a composite one, extending over 
more than a decade of round-ups. Contestants have 
come and gone and some have ridden out into the 
Farther West. But I have tried to make the picture a 
true one, though composed of thumb-nail sketches, 
snapshots caught as it were, through the open noose of 
a flying lass rope. 

As the cowboys are being run off the ranges and 
cowhands are yearly less in demand many are turning 
the art of their calling to more profitable use, by 
"ridin' the shows," that is, competing for prize money 
in the rodeos — little round-up shows held all over the 
West — in which some make several times their forty 
bucks and found. Still others, mostly star perform- 



FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE 

ers have gone from rodeo to movies and almost any 
night you can see Hoot Gibson, Art Acord, Jane Ber- 
noudy, Walter Sterling, Ben Corbett and others rep- 
licating on the film some real romance of their 
adventurous lives. 

But of those big-hearted, open-handed, courageous 
souls in the Great Game, none have followed the 
romance of life or death, none played more headily, 
yet openly with fate, than the cowboy of yesterday and 
today. Of those buckaroos and Round-Up officials 
who have graced the great Pendleton arena, there are 
some familiar figures who have ridden out and beyond 
across the Great Sunset — Bert Kelley, Mark Moor- 
house, Harry Gray, Otto Kline, Floyd Irwin, Del Blan- 
cett, Newt Burgess, George Peringer, Til Taylor, 
Earl Pruitt, H. C. Caplinger, Homer Wilson, Winna- 
mucca Jack and others. You see their silhouettes in 
the passing, against its golden afterglow. 

Some errors are naturally unavoidable, one cannot 
always rope a "critter" right, but if anyone picks up 
any "strays" both publisher and author will appreciate 
it if you'll rope 'em and lead 'em in and we'll put on the 
right brand if we ever make a second throw with this 
rope. But I'll offer no apology to the West for having 
slipped over a highbrow expression or two — or to the 
East for having dropped into the vernacular of the 
cowboy — because when you're through jogging along 
chapps to chapps, in this story, you'll both know the 
other feller better. 

C. W. F. 



SLAPS ON THE BACK TO THOSE 
WHO HELPED 

A SMALL portion of the material in this book has ap- 
peared in the form of magazine articles in Harper's 
Magazine and World's Work. 

My sincere acknowledgments are due to the follow- 
ing: — Mr. Robert Swan of New York and Canton, 
Mass., former ranch owner, for stimulating my inter- 
est in the West through his own love of God's country 
and for bringing me into first direct contact with the 
cowboy and range on the old Nine Quarter Circle in 
the Taylor Fork country of Montana : the late William 
F. Cody (Buffalo Bill), who through his striking per- 
sonality and healthy romance embodied in his Wild 
West Show concept, first set my boyhood imagination 
westward working. 

To the following Pendletonians : Mr. James H. 
Sturgis, of Sturgis and Storie, rancher and business 
man and former Round-Up Livestock Director, whose 
close friendship and generous assistance, not only 
helped inspire my initial interest in this book, but aided 
in the solution of some of the practical problems con- 
nected with it; the late Sheriff Tillman D. Taylor, 
eight years President of the Round-Up; the late Mark 
Moorhouse, first Arena Director; Samuel R. Thomp- 



SLAPS ON THE BACK 

son, Rancher and Livestock Director and Lawrence G. 
Frazier of L. G. Frazier's Bookstore and Grounds 
Director for kind personal assistance in facilitating my 
work with the Round-Up. To J. W. Earl, Non-Com- 
petitive Events, R. E. Chloupek, Treasurer, George C. 
Baer, Business Manager, D. S. Tatom, Accommoda- 
tions, James Estes, Parade Director; Thomas Boylen, 
Rancher and Judge and other members and ex-mem- 
bers of the Round-Up Directorate for the granting of 
privileges in the arena. 

To Mr. Roy T. Bishop of the Pendleton Woolen 
Mills, former Director of Indians and Mr. Chauncey 
Bishop of the same firm and present Director of In- 
dians for privileges extended and kind assistance in the 
Indian section of the Round-Up ; to Mr. Glenn Bushee, 
Deputy Sheriff and Indian authority for much personal 
assistance in gathering Indian data; Captain Lee 
Caldwell, formerly commanding Troop D, 3rd Oregon 
Cavalry — rancher and buckaroo, for detailed facts on 
rough-riding technique; Major Lee Moorhouse, lead- 
ing Oregon authority on the Northwest and the Indian, 
for generously placing his invaluable illustrative and 
literary collections at my disposal and aiding in veri- 
fying certain moot questions. 

To Mr. Charles H. Marsh, Attorney-at-law and 
Round-Up Secretary for invaluable personal assistance 
over a period of nine years and particularly for aid in 
compilation of the Round-Up tables at the back of this 
book : to Mr. Henry W. Collins, President of the Col- 
lins Flour Mills and President of the Round-Up for 
helpful personal and executive action in furthering the 
writing and publication of this book : To Mr. J. Roy 
Raley, Attorney at law, of Raley and Steiwer, first 
President of the Round-Up and Director of Happy 



SLAPS ON THE BACK 

Canyon for specific and valuable information: to Mr. 
Herbert Thompson, rancher and Round-Up Assistant 
Livestock Director for many personal favors in secur- 
ing material, both on ranch and in arena. 

To Mr. E. B. Aldrich, Journalist and Editor of The 
East Oregonian for exceptionally kind and valuable 
assistance since 1913, both through personal courtesies 
and the use of the valuable files of the East Oregonian; 
Mr. Harry Kuck, Journalist and Editor of The Pendle- 
ton Tribune for numerous tourtesies extended; Mr. 
Samuel Jackson, Journalist and Editor of The Ore- 
gon Journal for courtesies; Mr. Merle Chessman, 
Journalist and writer and authority on the Round-Up 
for information placed at my disposal; Mr. Ernest L. 
Crockatt, Secretary of the Eastern Oregon Auto Club, 
for published material generously placed at my disposal 
from which I have drawn freely in Chapter Two; 
Dr. Cyrus C. Sturgis, of Peter Bent Brigham Hos- 
pital, Boston, and formerly of Pendleton, for many 
kindnesses; Elmer Storie, of Sturgis and Storie, 
Walla Walla, for generous application of the balm of 
both horse liniment and friendship when sorely 
needed; Mr. and Mrs. F. Gordon Patterson, of Bos- 
ton, and the many friends whose kindly interest and 
helpfulness furthered the successful completion of 
this work. 

To Edwin P. Marshall, rancher and authority on 
range life, for kindly rendering exceptionally useful 
information; Mr. David Horn, early settler and 
pioneer stage driver for information in regard to stage- 
coaching and early Oregon conditions; Mr. Fay S. 
LeGrow of Athena, rancher and banker, for field in- 
formation and other assistance ; Mr. George and Allen 
Drumheller for field and technical information and 



SLAPS ON THE BACK 

courtesies; Miss E. J. Frazier of the L. G. Frazier 
Book Store, Pendleton; the late Mr. H. C. Caplinger 
of Athena, old time pioneer, for glimpses of the old 
West; Mr. William Switzler of Umatilla, rancher, 
and Mr. Ben Hutchinson of Crab Creek, Washington, 
rancher and old time buckaroo, for numerous eye 
openers. 

To Mr. Fred Earl of the firm of The Peoples Ware- 
house; Mr. Charles and Willard Bond of Bond Bros, 
and Mr. J. K. Thompson of the Thompson Drug Co., 
for information and loyal support; Mr. James S. Johns 
of the Hartman Abstract Co., Pendleton, for courte- 
sies; to the People of Pendleton for kindly coopera- 
tion and many courtesies. 

Special acknowledgment and thanks is hereby ex- 
pressed to Mr. Walter S. Bowman, Major Lee Moor- 
house, Round-Up Association, Mr. Marcell, Electric 
Studio, Doubleday, Dr. Tameisie and Mr. G. Ward, 
for the use of the splendid photographs as credited 
under the reproductions respectively. 

To the Tantlingers (Mr. and Mrs.) of Lawton, Ok- 
lahoma, formerly in charge of the cowboy and Indian 
contingent, Miller Bros. 101 Ranch show for many 
useful facts ; Mrs. Earl G. Reed, nee Jane Bernoudy of 
Hollywood, California; Cuba Crutchfield and Chester 
Byers for many points in roping; to Bertha Blancett for 
illustrations and points of riding technique ; to the late 
Dell Blancett of the Canadian Cavalry and buckaroo 
and to all my friends and pals among the cowboys who 
have given me points and initiated me into the fast-dis- 
appearing vernacular, colloquialisms and ways of the 
Umatilla Reservation, the Blackfeet Reservation and 
Crow Agency, Montana, and elsewhere who have re- 
vealed to me some of the secrets of their people. And 



SLAPS ON THE BACK 

not least, though last, to Maj. George Palmer Putnam, 
of G. P. Putnam's Sons, publisher and writer, be- 
cause of his faith in the idea of the book and its author, 
for his unusual personal encouragement and practical 
cooperation and particularly for his unpublishery, un- 
arm-chairy imagination, all of which is so essential to 
book success. 




Let 'er Buck ! 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

BEING AN ACCOUNT OF 
THE FRONTIERS OF YESTERDAY AND TODAY 

We sat on the top rail of a corral fence, my pal and 
I. We had ridden nearly one hundred miles over the 
Montana Rockies, from Nine Quarter Circle Ranch 
in the Taylor Fork country, loping into the little town 
of Ennis in the Madison Valley to witness a local buck- 
ing contest, the first I had ever seen. 

The top rail was the grandstand, the gaps between 
the logs were the bleachers, well crowded by the people 
of the little hamlet and the outfits that had ridden in. 
Montana Whitey was riding old Glass Eye, a brute of 
a bucker, who, not satisfied with trying to scrape off 
his rider against the corral fence, nipped viciously at 
the quickly-hauled-up legs of the "grandstand" specta- 
tors. Crash! A tenderfoot fell backwards thru an 
automobile top, landing squarely, if unexpectedly, in 
the lap of a lady, 

"Who's the tall, goodlooking cowboy, with the red 
feather dangling Indian fashion from his Stetson? 
The one in charge of the stakes," I asked Judge Call- 
oway of Virginia City, who on the morrow was hold- 
ing court in Ennis, but who now helped me hold down 
the top rail. 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

"What! Don't you know V ? He's not a 

bad sort, but I had to send him up last spring for two 
years — horse rustling." 

"Speaks well for him that he is out so soon." 

"Out? He's not out. You see, he's one of the best 
riders in the valley and the people hereabouts wouldn't 

stand for keeping V in jail while this bucking 

contest is on. But he goes back tonight." 

This episode not only prefaces this book and my 
own experiences in the life and sports of the old West, 
but epitomizes those great human virtues with which 
the West is replete — courage, daring, belief in work, 
love of play, optimism, and above all, that balance- 
wheel of life, humor; virtues which were not only nec- 
essary to the winning of the West, but were those com- 
posite constituents which enabled the early pioneer to 
cement later the great Northwest into our national 
body politic. 

Five nations for two centuries, seeking the Oregon 
country, tried to discover the great rumored "River of 
the West." Then the New England skipper. Captain 
Robert Gray of Boston, first cargoed by Boston mer- 
chants and later sent by General Washington, let fall 
the anchors of his two vessels the Columbia and Lady 
Washington in the long sought River of the West, 
later christened after the name of his flagship — and 
Oregon was found. This great River of the West as 
expressed in the poem picture of Bryant's imagina- 
tion is supposed to be the waterway mentioned in 
Thanatopsis in the line "where rolls the Oregon." 

A scant three hundred years ago, the Atlantic sea- 
board was the frontier of Europe. But that eternal 
urge, that migratory instinct — wanderlust — found 
from man to butterflies, saw the eastern settler push 

XX iv 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

over the Appalachian passes, onward to the Mississippi 
and Missouri, and the frontier of Europe was 
advanced. 

The search for the Northwest Passage had of neces- 
sity brought those early explorers in close contact with 
the Pacific coast, but the immense supply of skins to 
be purchased from the Amerinds^ sidetracked the navi- 
gators. It was no wonder that when one could pur- 
chase two hundred otter skins for a chisel, as did 
Captain Gray, that their passion was shifted from 
"passage to peltries." Gray later traded in China his 
cargo of skins for tea, and returned to Boston around 
the Cape of Good Hope, the "first sailor under the 
American flag to circumnavigate the globe." 

About fifteen years later, those courageous young 
explorers, Lewis and Clark, starting from St. Louis 
and following the Missouri River, explored portions 
of the Northwest clear to the Pacific. Despite the fact 
that the Hudson's Bay Company pushing on to 
the Columbia and south of it, had thrown out a west- 
ern flank of conquest, Lewis and Clark's exploration 
coupled with Gray's discovery established for the 
United States a definite and recorded claim upon the 
Oregon country, which at that time included the great- 
er portion of the Northwest. 

Americans pushed their claims and trade still harder 
when John Jacob Astor of New York, the founder of 
the great line of merchant princes, outfitted his ships 

*The term Amerind derived by combining syllables of the 
words American Indian is used to signify an aboriginal inhab- 
itant of North or South America in order to distinguish be- 
tween him and the Indian, the autochthonous inhabitant of In- 
dia. The term Amerind was first used by Major Powell of the 
Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D. C. 

XXV 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

in 1810 to sail around the Horn and established a trad- 
ing post at the mouth of the Columbia River — today 
the flourishing town of Astoria, Oregon, He also sent 
a body of men overland from St. Louis along w^hat 
later became the great historic Oregon Trail to the 
same point. His plan was to attempt to wrest the valu- 
able fur trade from the Hudson's Bay Company on the 
American side and capture it for the United States. 
This was another asset toward the permanent estab- 
lishment of our western flank. 

Even before the middle of the last century, the fur 
trade of the Mississippi had been exhausted. Thru 
the fertile, fluvial soil of this Father of Waters and 
the Missouri, the agricultural market became so con- 
gested that "Mississippi at times found even bacon a 
hot and cheap fuel." So even for these central set- 
tlers access to the sea became a necessity. 

Our expansion naturally followed the direction of 
our greatest length — westward. Thus settlement of 
the middle West seemed but a halt, a pitching of tents 
overnight, in the movement, and again the frontier of 
Europe moved west. 

The starting point of this immigration and of the 
principal trails was Independence, Missouri. There 
the Missouri River bent northwesterly, necessitating 
the beginning of the prairie trails. These naturally took 
the paths of least resistance, the wake of the redman's 
course. Southwesterly the Santa Fe trail scorched its 
way through rock, sand, cactus, mesquite and chapar- 
ral, conciding eventually with the Gila trail which 
ended in view of the Bay of San Diego and lovely 
Point Loma; while the Spanish trail diverged a little 
northward to the City of the Angels. 

But it was The Great Trail, later known as The Ore- 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

gon Trail, which bore northwesterly, through sage- 
brush and bunchgrass, traversing desert, prairie, forest 
and mountain, mainly through Oregon to the Pacific. 
By 1840 this trail was established, and from that time 
on it became a much traveled route for that restless 
population which began its migrations in 1843. 

The first wagon train of one hundred and ten ox- 
drawn, white covered prairie schooners crossed the 
Missouri River with the first gallant one thousand Ore- 
gon pioneers and entered the treacherous wilderness 
under the leadership of Dr. Marcus Whitman. New 
Englanders formed no small portion of the contingent, 
some having trekked clear from the rock-bound coast 
of Maine and Massachusetts. 

Through gulch and gully, rain and snow, mud and 
bog, up steep grades and down sharp defiles through 
hostile Indian tribes and attacked by terrible cholera; 
through trackless deserts and down the perilously roar- 
ing, raging rivers; over no well-defined trails they 
passed, eventually to endure dreariness beyond concep- 
tion through isolation and the many hardships in set- 
tlement, "to which the history of mankind has few 
parallels." 

Only the rocks along that trail, could they speak, 
could complete a history of The Great American Trek 
—but a paragraph of a few gathered fragments will 
serve to show the tragedy of the old emigrant road. 
As the caravans of Tripoli waited months to augment 
their numerical strength against the fierce Touareg 
buccaneers of the desert wastes of the Sahara before 
starting on their way to the great trade marts of the 
Sudan, so these pioneers united their forces at the 
starting point of their long trail for protection against 
the hostile Amerinds of the great plains. 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

How many died of those who started westward dur- 
ing this sixteen years of migration or how many eventu- 
ally arrived at the Ultima Thule will never be known. 
But there is a record of a single column, fifty thousand 
strong, and five hundred miles in length. The old em- 
igrant road, like the Saharan trails, may be said to be 
paved with the bones of wayfarers. 

In 1852 was the fatal cholera. Between two cross- 
ings of the Snake River eleven of twenty-three people 
died in one wagon train, while one day and two nights 
saw forty people of another train buried opposite the 
trail. Seven persons of one family were interred in a 
single grave. At least five thousand emigrants found 
their last resting-place on the prairies in that fatal 
year. The dead lay in rows of fifties and groups of 
seventies; and many claim ten per cent is too low an 
estimate for a single twelvemonth. 

A scout, following over the trail from the Platte to 
the Laramie, reported that on one side of the river 
alone he counted six fresh graves to the mile for the 
entire distance of four hundred miles. When it is 
born in mind that on the north bank was a parallel col- 
umn where the same conditions prevailed, some concep- 
tion of the fatalities may be had. How many died? 
Even the approximate number of the total toll paid 
by these pioneers of the plains will never be known; 
the roll call was never made. 

The march of the Oregon pioneers was a vast move- 
ment of families, a romance of adventure, enterprise, 
patriotism and lofty ambition peculiarly characteristic 
of America, We of this more effete generation, of 
this day of steam heat, hot water and upholstered 
Pullmans, may well pause a moment in our excession 
of the human economic speed limit and pay tribute to 

xxviii 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

these pioneers of the interminable forests, mighty 
rivers, exhaustless mines and Hmitless plains, who have 
made all these comforts possible. Well, too, if we 
curtail our misuse of this heritage which tends to that 
depleting epidemic of civilization, civilizitis. 

The printed story of the adventures and sufferings of 
these pioneer caravans over the great trek from 1843 
to 1859 is a mere synopsis of the actualities. The story 
of The Old Emigrant Trail, the only name by which 
the pioneers knew it, is an epic in American life, and 
the emigration to Oregon marks an era in American his- 
tory — "Its like is not in all history." 

In these pages it is my privilege to pass on in a 
meagre way fragments of the pioneer's message and 
to portray remnants of a portion of his pioneer life. 
Altho those who read may have known him not, it is 
believed that they will feel in these episodes and de- 
scriptions at least a faint echo of his heart throbs 
which have become the pulse beats of a nation's life. 

The Star of Empire, ever beckoning toward the 
Eldorado of man's hope, brought the last shift of the 
frontier of Europe to the Sundown Sea. Our country 
is productive, our position is strategic, and our climate 
produces an energetic population ; all this coupled with 
the fact that the United States was fundamentally 
peopled by an Anglo-Saxon race, determines our des- 
tiny. 

The Orient, through the great tide of the Jehad or 
Holy War of Islam, really the great Arab migration, 
reached the very gates of Poitiers, before it was 
stemmed and turned back by Charlemagne. The tidal 
wave of the Orient is now flowing on the other flank 
of Western civilization. On this last frontier of Eu- 
rope our West meets East. Our trade expansion is 

xxix 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

westward. China is the great trade emporium of the 
future. 

It is not the Cahfornia-Japanese question, Lower 
Cahfornia, or even Yap as such, which raises the 
threatening cloud on the western horizon of the Land 
of the Rising Sun, but the control of trade in the Gold- 
en Land of the Black Dragon. The movement of 
Western civilization has met a counter-current of the 
East, eddying about that pin point in the Pacific — Yap. 
Hence we must not underestimate the importance of 
the development of the West as a basis of those new 
world influences, and we must be alive to the signifi- 
cance of the Pacific. 

From Cape Cod to Cape Flattery the country with 
each shift of the frontier became Americanized, and 
each shift produced its type. Each type whether he 
be Easterner, Middle State, Southern or Western, pos- 
sess those salient characteristics which stamp him with 
the unmistakable hall mark — American. 

The great emigration but placed these pioneers on 
the threshold of that era which makes for the winning 
and building of the West; and it is to our forefather 
pioneers of this era that we owe the results of their 
elemental life in conquering the desert plains, trackless 
forests and great rivers of the vast American waste 
they sternly invaded. The freedom of that elemental 
life, the daily association with its poetry and charm as 
well as its dangers, has developed a virile American 
type. It is a debt of loyalty and understanding that is 
imposed on us of this generation to pay tribute to these 
scouts of a dawning civilization and to preserve the 
heritage which these intrepid layers of the foundations 
of the great West have bequeathed. 

The stranger in the West is particularly impressed 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

with the fact that the West still retains its frontier 
characteristics, its lore and songs. There are even now 
living pioneers who, through the round openings at the 
end of the ox-drawn prairie schooner, saw the East 
diminish and the West grow big; who have lived 
through the days of the log cabin with its puncheon 
floor and the "shake" house, and stocked their first 
larders with buffalo, antelope and bear meat from plain 
and mountain. 

Through arduous days and nights, hard at their best, 
and rendered desperate by Indian wars, whole scattered 
settlements had to "fort up"; through those days 
when defiance of law was in the foreground and out- 
lawry ruled, they endured until the level-headed better 
class organized the "vigilantes" and "passed on" some 
of the notorious bad characters by the "short cut" in- 
stead of the usual "highway round" and brought the 
"bad man" to the realization that human law is a neces- 
sity. Thus through the pioneers' progress they have 
passed to the today of palatial homes, protection of the 
law, the telephone, telegraph and canned foods. 

Many an actor who carried the principal parts 
against the background of this greatest of national 
melodramas still stalks in the flesh. There are yet to 
be found, tucked away in stray corners, the cattle 
rancher, cowboy, sheriff, horse-thief, ranger, road 
agent, trapper and trader, the old stage driver, freight- 
er, gambler, canoeman, the missionary, pioneer 
woman, old-time scout, the placer-miner, the Indian — 
all pioneer types, primeval actors in this great dramat- 
ic Odyssey of American adventure and development, 
the building of the West. 

Yes, many of the actors are here, but the scenery has 
changed and most of them are out of a job. Yet in 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

some parts of the interior country the last vestige of 
pioneer and range Hfe, and the art of its calHng is still 
carried on. Times are changing, the march of progress 
is fast obliterating the dashing cowboy and those other 
picturesque characters of the passing of the old West. 
The Old West is dying out; but if one thinks the spirit 
of the Old West is dying, a certain three days of any 
September spent at the time of the gathering of the 
clans in the little city of Pendleton in Eastern Oregon, 
will soon change one's mind and will convince one that 
here is seen the metamorphosis of the Old West into 
that of the New. 

Man ever seeks to perpetuate himself and his his- 
tory. In almost all lands there are certain feasts and 
carnivals. Sometimes they take the form of pageants 
to commemorate certain anniversaries, the founding of 
the nation, the founding of cities, to honor saints' days, 
or in commemoration of historic individuals, events 
or episodes. This idea is simply a symbolism of the 
spirit of the people, the most precious, concrete, prac- 
tical and ideal asset that a people may have. 

The oldest national carnival, the Olympiad which im- 
mortalized the art and athletic powers of classic 
Greece, still calls to its Olympic Games in the stadia 
of the western world the youthful contestants of all 
nations. Perhaps the greatest and most famous of 
community symbols is the Passion Play in the little 
hamlet of Oberammergau, symbolizing a great relig- 
ious idea; while the Mission Play at San Gabriel out 
of Los Angeles has both a religious and historical 
incentive. 

Each year at Pendleton, Oregon, there occurs in the 
fall a great carnival which epitomizes the most dra- 
matic phases of the pioneer days of the West — and its 



FRONTIERSPIECE 

spirit. There the real, practical work of the trail, cow- 
camp and range is shown, through the sports of the 
pioneer ; for the play of a people is usually but a nor- 
mal outgrowth and expert expression of its work. 

This great carnival is supported by the community 
spirit of Pendleton and the surrounding country. It 
is essentially an American pageant and typifies a phase 
of American life which will soon have passed forever 
below the horizon of time, but should be eternally en- 
graved on the escutcheon of our history. 

The Round-Up is an epitome of the end of The 
Great Migration on this continent and stands not only 
as typical of Pendleton, but of Oregon, of the West, 
of America. This panorama of the passing of the Old 
West is a page torn literally from the Book of our 
Nation, and it is for this reason that I offer this little 
volume as a chapter of the pioneer story as shown in 
the Epic Drama of the West. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Putting on the Brand vii 

The First Throw of the Rope and Why . xi 

Slaps on the Back to Those Who Helped . xvii 

Frontiers PIECE xxiii 

CHAPTER 

I. — Out Where the West Begins . » . 5 

II. — Til Taylor — Sheriff .... 40 

III. — Corral Dust 59 

IV. — Milling With the Night Herd . . 98 

V. — The Round-up 134 

The Bucker's Own Table . . . 228 

The Rode and Thrown Table . . . 230 

The Bucking Time Table . . . 232 

Tips to the Tenderfoot .... 235 



mi 



ILLUSTRATIONS 
A Fight to a Finish .... Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

Pendleton and Its Wheat Lands From the Air 6 

Pageant of the Passing of the Old West . 7 

The Sheriff 54 

The Epic Drama of the West on Parade . 55 

A Shooting Star 68 

Sailing High 68 

Spinning the Wedding Ring .... 69 
Pawin', Hoofin' and Rarin' Ter Go . . .94 

Saddle Him or Bust 95 

A Pioneer of the Old West .... 106 
Type of the Manhood and Womanhood of the 

Range 107 

A Mad-Cap Ride, Everybody For Himself . . 142 
A Wild Swing and Tear Through a Smother 

OF Dust 142 

Swift and Reckless at the Turns . . . 142 

Swinging the Turns Like Galleons in a Gale 143 

Catch as Catch Can 148 

Bidding the Steer Good-bye .... 148 

Hook 'im Cow 149 

The Cow-pony's End of the Game . . . 152 

Hogtied! Hands and Heads Up . . . 152 

A Merry-Go-Round 153 

Stay With 'im Cowboy 153 

xxxvii 



AND 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 

Dare Devil Riding at Top Speed 

That's Tyin' 'im . 

A Pretty Throw .... 

An Epic Fight 

The Navy Taking on Fresh Beef 
Bite 'im Lip! . , . . , 

Thumbs Up! ..... 

Grabbed For the Horn of the Saddle 

Picked Up a Handful of Dirt 
When Beef is Highest 
Landing at the Round-Up . 
Seated on a Ton of Living Dynamite 
Hitting the Grandstand Between the Eyes 
All Wound Round With a Woolen String 
The Ceremonial War Dance of the Red Men 
Hop to it! Charlie Irwin Wrangling For His 

Daughter in the Relay . 

Two Indians 

Ride Him Cowboy ! . . . . 

Even the Horses Ride at the Round-Up 

The Queen of Reinland Gracing Her Throne 

A Pretty Ride With Hobbled Stirrups 

Why This One Was Not in the Finals 

We Would Ride That Way 

All Over But the Singin' . 

Art in the Rough .... 

Looking For a Soft Spot 

The Greatest Rider of the Red Race 

Let 'Er Buck! 

Stay a Long Time, Cowboy ! 

One of the Greatest Rides Ever Made 

Hell Bent 



PAGE 

156 
156 
157 
160 
160 
161 
161 

164 
165 
165 
168 
169 
169 
174 

175 
175 
184 
184 
185 
185 
190 
191 
191 
202 
203 
203 
210 
211 
211 
220 



LET 'ER BUCK 



CATCH AS CATCH CAN- 
ONE FALL FOR THE STEER 

"Hook 'im cow !" is an expression often heard from the cow- 
boy contingent when a steer is winning after putting up a good 
fight, and so it yipped out when Jack Fretz lost out against a 
brute of a longhorn from the same bunch of steers as that which 
vanquished Hunter. 

The brute literally wore the man out and in this scene is try- 
ing to trample him to death by dancing a can-can all over him. 
But that cowboy was not born yesterday. Lying on his back he 
never for a moment loses his head — he uses it to think and 
dodge with — while at the same time he uses his hands to good 
advantage in side pushing away the vicious down-pounding, 
drill-edged hoofs above him. 

This picture is ace high among the author's bulldogging photo- 
graphs. Such an episode rarely occurs, when it does, to get to 
that end of the arena, focus one's camera, snap it and — ^get away 
with it is not the easiest combination to work. So when the 
plucky bulldogger suddenly kicked the steer in the stomach and 
with a grunt it charged on me, I folded my camera and softly 
stole away — quickly too, rolling under the low arena fence, com- 
prising a top rail and a board, while the steer went over the top 
and turned again for a second charge, then I roJled back again. 
Swish ! went the rope of the "hazer" and the film, and conse- 
quently this picture was saved from being lightning struck. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

CHAPTER ONE 

OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

"From the East?" and the speaker, a husky lad, 
whose voice occasionally skipped its lower register, 
cast a furtive glance at my headdress — that inartistic 
abomination, the derby; then he scanned my trousers, 
still retaining a faint semblance of creases, despite the 
long journey from the City of Public Spirit and East 
Winds. 

"Yes," I replied. "Ever been there?" 

"I rounded up at Lincoln, Nebraska, once," and 
another geographical illusion was dispelled. We were 
jogging along on the tail-end platform of a train 
from Walla Walla through Eastern Oregon toward 
Pendleton. 

"Coin' to the Round-Up?" 

"Yes." 

"That's some show. The boys have been riding in 
for a couple of days now." 

"You're going, I suppose?" 

"Not and hold my job. Yer see" — and he tapped his 
water-filled pail and fire-fighting apparatus with his 
foot — "the country's pretty dry. I've got to hang to 

S 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

What! You don't know this country — never saw that mar- 
velous view from pine-clad Cabbage Hill in spring, that won- 
derview on the new highway of the Old Oregon Trail? 

Spread over the lap of the Umatilla Valley, nestling on the 
gently undulating bosom of its hills, lie the cultivated lands. 
Over the valley floor is a marvelous, magic color-carpet of Na- 
ture. Into this design, she has woven the yellow, pink, brown 
and old rose rectangles of stubble fields and summer fallow, 
alternated it with the emerald and distant turquoise of luxuriant, 
verdant fields of spring sowing, and dark-accented it with rich 
maroons and distant purples of the near-summer plowing. Into 
it she has dabbed some odd plays of shadow which dash it with 
lapis-lazuli, levantine, and violet and finally, has stitched through 
its center, the careless-rambhng, silver thread of the river. 
Nature through her mist-charged atmosphere holds before you 
crystal globes of amethyst, opal, tourmaline and bids you gaze 
into this Valley of Rainbows. 

Week by week one may see this restful Eden of Colors meta- 
morphose through summer to fall. Again Nature holds before 
your gaze a transparent crystal now of iridescent gold, waves 
her wand of time over the magic carpet and bids you behold the 
products of one of earth's richest granaries. 

Journey now by aeroplane over this huge, earthen bowl called 
the county of Umatilla of nearly two million acres in extent, and 
drained by the numerous streams from the Blue Mountains. 
Over mountain slope and upland valley we skim the tree-tops of 
forests of standing timber, fly over irrigated lands of vege- 
tables and fruits and the fourth crop of alfalfa purpling in the 
sun ; speed over grazing lands dotted with a million sheep and a 
half million head of other livestock; glide over the vast areas 
which are sown with softly, undulating seas of grain products, 
producing five million bushels of wheat alone. 

Swing over Hermiston, Stanfield, Umatilla, Milton, Athena and 
Pendleton, the county seat, which here and there checkerboard 
tlie landscape, their modern mills, factories and industries taking 
care of the predominating agrarian pursuits. Hover now over 
the Round-Up City, Pendleton, the trade emporium of eastern 
Oregon. It lies like a clean-cut gem in a band of green, sur- 
rounded with a setting of gold. But for the whir of the motor 
you might hear the drone of its industry, for here the manu- 
facturing of eastern Oregon centers. Main Street defines the 
center of this biggest little city of its size in the West; the 
great oval and the little cones of white to the left and almost 
beneath us define the Round-Up Park and the lodges of the 
Umatillas. Here we alight, for tomorrow the great carnival of 
the cowboy and Indian is on. This is indeed "Out Where the 
West Begins." 




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THE PAGEANT OF THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST 

This greatest of all human shows is a magnificent three-day 
cowboy carnival, given over to the old sports and passing life 
of the frontier, characteristic, unique, thrilling, a classic in which 
the Old West stalks before one in the flesh. Here gather over a 
thousand cowboys, cowgirls, Indians, stage drivers and cow- 
country people. They ride in from Tum-a-lum to Hidaway, 
they come from California and the Dakotas, and from beyond 
the Mexican border and the Canadian line. These actors are 
real range folk fresh from the ranges and reservations and 
include the most superb contingent of rough riders ever brought 
together. 

From the time the starter's first pistol shot rings out at one 
each afternoon until the wild horse race is finished there is not 
an idle moment in the spectacles spread out before one, not a 
break in the unbroken chain of head and heart thrillers, in the 
wonderful feats performed. 

In this pageant of the old range sports and pastimes, men of 
agile body and iron nerve vie in fancy roping and trick riding; 
compete in cowpony and standing races, in the relay and pony 
express, in roping wild steers and bulldogging Texas longhorns; 
participate in the grand mounted parade; dance in Indian cere- 
monials ; race with the old stagecoaches ; contest on famous 
bucking bulls, steers, and buffaloes and on the backs of the 
world's worst outlaw horses. There is no set stage effect, all 
events are competitive, the climaxes impromptu. It is all "best," 
marvelous, new and — all American. 

It is the child of Pendleton's sturdy citizens, who have, as 
though by magic, created a fascinating instructive object lesson 
in Nature and modernized humanity. It is owned by the munici- 
pality of Pendleton, pays neither dividends nor profits and is 
staged by a volunteer association of young men who serve with- 
out salaries. Its money goes into prizes for the contestants and 
the improvement of the city. The arena is enclosed by a quarter 
mile track which is almost entirely surrounded by grandstand 
and bleachers with a total seating capacity of 40,000, the largest 
west of the Mississippi River. It is a monument to the little 
city who birthed and matured it. 

In all the world there is no more thrilling impressive spec- 
tacle, it nurtures the wonderful heritage our forefathers created 
for us, it puts a glow into the minds of youth, it strikes you 
squarely between the eyes, and reveals the great living, panting 
West before you. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

the tail-end of this puffin' cayuse 'cause it snorts cinders 
and I've got to watch out for fires along the trail." 

The country was indeed dry. Some of the grain still 
lay in the sheaf. Miles of golden-yellow stubble- 
fields undulated away in the distance; willows and 
cottonwoods stenciled green along the watercourses or 
clustered about an occasional ranch-house or "nesters" 
cabin. A few scattered herds of live stock grazed here 
and there, where buffalo wallows still show green and 
the slopes are scarred with the parallel trails of the 
Great Herds which have passed, but whose remnant 
have now moved back from the lines of steel to the 
"interior country." 

Wherever the railroads have thrust their antennas, 
the open range becomes dotted with the homesteaders' 
shacks and webbed with wire ; dry farming and irriga- 
tion turn a one-time half-desert into fertile fields and 
blossoming orchards. Thus agriculture crowds out 
the pastoral, and industry in turn both aids and crowds 
out agriculture; and the "chapped" (schapped) and 
"booted" cowboy and stockman retreat to their last 
stamping-ground, where the Indians, trappers, pros- 
pectors, and buckskin-garbed scouts have preceded 
them. 

In Oregon, however, there remains even today some 
interior country where the free life of the open is 
still unhampered by a useless and deadening veneer 
of paternal regulations and effete conventionalities. 
There are still a few out-of-the-way corners yet un- 
turned by the plow and unvexed by wire fences; and 
a day in the saddle back from many of the railroads 
brings one to a ranch country yet awaiting the settler 
where the cowboy still "ropes" and "busts" steer or 
bronco, "brands" and "hog-ties" calf and longhorn,and 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

occasionally rides into town a-whooping; where the 
rustler still "rustles," and the sheriff and his posse pur- 
sue with the same cautious dash or reckless bravado 
that have given these unplumed knights of the range a 
permanent place in American history. 

The frontiersman, often the unnamed explorer, was 
always the advance-guard of civilization, who, with 
the cavalry outposts, held and ever advanced the fron- 
tier. They were the pioneer winners of the West, the 
protectors and sponsors for a thinner-blooded civiliza- 
tion which followed in their wake. 

Through the West of today one skirts fruit-laden 
hillsides and valleys larger than many Eastern counties, 
rolls past vast wheat-fields, as big as some nations, and 
pauses at the cities — big, white, and new — seemingly 
grown up in a night out of the prairies. There is a 
breezy frankness in the way of the well-paved, broad 
"Main" Street, wonderfully lit up with its cluster of 
lights, strikes out at right angles to the track from a 
well-designed station, inviting you through the town, 
to let you out as frankly on to the prairie. It all be- 
speaks, youth, growth and optimism. 

Suddenly a small black wraith of smoke smooched 
the low-rolling hillsides. The lad yanked the signal 
cord, and before the train had stopped, was speeding 
pail in hand, toward the cinder-started blaze. 

"He'll pick us up around the bend at Athena," the 
brakeman said. 

In less than an hour we rolled into Pendleton. I 
swung off the train in the tang of the September 
morning. Ill suppressed exuberance and expectancy 
seemed to emanate from the quiet stir of the attractive 
little city. Bunting, streamers, and flags bulged and 
flapped gracefully in the soft laft of air which draws 

9 



LET 'ER BUCK 

up the river valley from the prairie. Two tented cities 
had sprung up near the city edge and hundreds of sin- 
gle tents white-dotted the yards of residents. The 
church, where one turns to go up the hill, hospitably 
announced both cots and meals within. Months pre- 
viously every hotel room had been engaged and every 
private citizen who could do so offered accommoda- 
tions. Now even box cars for quarters had been 
shunted in on the sidings. 

If you lived within a thousand miles of eastern 
Oregon, you would know why, and if you were a ten- 
derfoot, even from as far as the outer edge of Cape 
Cod at low tide, you ought to. In fact, some travelers 
journey across the seas, that for three whole days 
they may live the spirit of the Old West and feel them- 
selves a part of that epic drama for which Pendleton 
stands — the Round-Up. 

For some days before the Round-Up the vanguard 
of visitors comes in, in the comfortable Pullmans, on 
the smooth lines of steel laid along trails where once 
hardy pioneers, with bullock-spanned prairie schooners, 
had pushed back the frontier toward the western sea. 

Even today, however, one feels the touch and senses 
the romance of the passing West, as along every 
trail and road which converges toward Pendleton, 
cowboys and cowgirls come riding in to the jingling of 
spur and the retch of leather. So, too, come the 
Amerinds from their reservations — bucks, squaws, and 
papooses — with tepee-poles and outfit, stored in every 
kind of wheeled rig, and drawn by every variety of 
cayuse, nigger pony to "calico." A few traveled as did 
their fathers — with belongings lashed to long, trailing, 
sagging travois (travoy). Over half a thousand strong, 
these redmen of mountain and plain soon had their 

10 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

lodge-poles pointing skyward, and, like mushrooms in 
a night, a white tepee village had sprung up in the 
picturesque cottonwoods near the Pendleton ford by 
the old Oregon Trail. 

Even before the first day of the Round-Up, Main 
Street, which shoots over a rise into wheat fields, 
was in gala dress. Beneath the banners and flags 
strung overhead, lifting lazily in the soft stir of air, 
cowboys in gaudy shirts of red, blue, purple, yellow, 
and green, and kerchiefs of many hues, cowgirls in at- 
tractive dresses of fringed buckskin, and Indians with 
multicolored blankets and beaded moccasins, move like 
an everchanging chromoscope among the neutral- 
clothed townsmen. 

Yes, it was "goin' to the Round-Up," as the lad had 
said, which brought me like thousands of others to this 
"biggest little city of its size" in the West. 

The term "Round-Up" is taken from the old range 
expression meaning the "rounding up" — encircling and 
herding together of the cattle previous to the spring 
"branding," "cutting out," or fall "drive." When the 
Round-Up is spoken of, the carnival held at Pendleton 
is meant. It is a grand carnival of the frontiersman 
in commemoration of that fine old life with its thrills 
and its dangers, many phases of which have already 
passed into history. 

The dynamic forces of modern "civilization" — ap- 
plied science and industry — have caused most of the 
old range country of the United States to be re-mapped 
into town and homestead with astonishing swiftness. 
In the old days — within the memories of men still in 
the prime of life — the west country was essentially a 
"cow country." Every ranch had its "cow hands" 
who could rope and ride. Every ranch had its horses, 

11 



LET 'ER BUCK 

those indispensable factors of range work, to break and 
train. Often a man's standing or usefulness depended 
on his ability in this work, so it was but natural that 
each "outfit" tested out their men in bucking contests. 
This led to these champions meeting in competition, 
often at town or ranch on certain holidays or festival 
occasions, usually at a time of year when work was 
slackest in their locality. 

But a few years ago, every camp and hamlet in the 
cow country had its bucking contests. As the range 
began to disappear before the wire fence, the cultivated 
fields and the railroads, so did the cattle and the cow- 
boy and the bucking contests. But his is a tenacious 
clan and dies hard, as do all inherent potential elements 
of a nation or civilization. Many a remote ranch or 
hamlet still ''pulls off" its old time bucking contest, tho 
they are more centralized now in certain local points. 
The contestants come in from greater distances to com- 
pete, and give to many the character of great range 
shows or carnivals. 

Such carnivals are held in certain centers of the 
West; to each is given its name. Cheyenne has its 
"Frontier Days"; Fort Worth, Texas, the "Cattle 
Men's Carnival" ; Denver has its "Festival of Moun- 
tain and Plain"; Winnipeg, has its "Stampede"; 
Grangeville, Idaho, its "Border Days"; Kearney, 
Nebraska, its "Frontier Round-Up"; Idaho Falls, its 
"War Bonnet Round-Up"; Salinas, California, its 
"Rodeo"; Ukiah, Oregon, its "Cowboys' Conven- 
tion"; and Walla Walla, Washington, has its "Fron- 
tier Days"; a civic show in which there is more 
real competition than in any other outside of Pendleton. 
Then there are minor and more sporadic contests 
held in Belle Fouche, South Dakota; Billings and 

12 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

Bozeman, Montana; Bovina, Texas; Sioux City, 
Iowa; Battle Ground, Tacoma, and Seattle in Wash- 
ington, with others in Arizona and New Mexico, as 
well as a thousand less known little ones. 

To Cheyenne must be given the credit of presenting 
what was probably the first big contest, Frontier Days, 
staged as a show. This was indelibly put on the pages 
of history by that ardent lover of the West and its 
spirit, — the great American, the late Theodore Roose- 
velt. Different ranch outfits put on the Frontier 
Days exhibitions — McCarty and Guilford one year for 
instance, Charlie Irwin another. The tremendous 
success of these shows will always stand to the credit of 
those efficient and enthusiastic managers. 

Each show has a slogan, as indispensable as that of 
clan or college, expressed in terms of the cow-camp. 
A few of the words of that terse and expressive 
phraseology are arbitrary and carry no special signifi- 
cance of their origin or of themselves, but those in 
common usage are wonderfully to the point to one 
who knows chaparral and sage-brush and loves the 
smell of leather. At Walla Walla the slogan is "Let 
'er kick"; at Grangeville, "Hook'em cow," a term of 
encouragement to a roped or "bulldogged" steer. At 
Pendleton it is "Let 'er buck," a phrase which, briefly in- 
terpreted, means "get busy", but is primarily applied to a 
cowboy about to mount the hurricane deck of a "buck- 
ing" broncho; and when you hear that cowboy yell, 
whether in the arena at Pendleton or on the range, it is 
a safe bet that something startling is about to begin. 

Human actions are but thoughts expressed, and 
when a group of Pendletonians desire to start some- 
thing distinctively original, yet adapted to the Pendle- 
ton country, it is a safe bet that it will be put over. 

13 



LET 'ER BUCK 

In the pioneer days when the long, tempestuous 
journey around the tip end of South America, where it 
was said men hung their consciences on the Horn, was 
the only way of bringing freight to Oregon. In those 
days before "Bill" Cody rounded up buffalo meat for 
the Union Pacific and the railroads were built, Uma- 
tilla, sixty miles down the river from Pendleton, was 
the head of navigation and the focal point of depart- 
ure for pack-trains to the placer mines of Idaho, which 
were the great things in those days, as agriculture had 
not then developed. Anybody who lived anywhere at 
that time lived in Umatilla which had almost as large 
a floating population as its permanent one, for it was the 
center both for supplies and a "fling" to the far-flung 
population of the greater portion of three states. 

The rest of Eastern Oregon contained only scatter- 
ing settlements; for instance, Pendleton itself at that 
time consisted of the stage-stop hotel, the Pendleton, 
a general store and the few typical false fronts of a 
Western pioneer town. There were only two resi- 
dences, the house of Judge Bailey and one other. 
Thus Umatilla became the county seat of Umatilla 
County, which at that time, 1863, included practically 
all of Oregon east of the John Day River, as it was 
the metropolis and great trade emporium of Eastern 
Oregon, which included most of Washington, Oregon 
and Idaho. 

As the ends of those great ever-projecting probosces 
of civilization, the railroads, thrust their feelers further 
west, the Horn route fell into disuse and the overland 
routes from the East increased the development and 
population of Eastern Oregon. When in 1868 the Cen- 
tral Pacific pushed into Nevada, the bulk of the Idaho 
trade followed it. This killed Umatilla — which was 

14 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

"some town" in its day — and decreased its population ; 
while that of Eastern Oregon especially between '66 
?.nd '68 increased, and Pendleton became a more nat- 
ural and easily reached center for the inhabitants. 

These were the reasons advanced for the transfer of 
the county seat to Pendleton, and this question was 
agitated. All the settlers of Eastern Oregon now de- 
manded by a signed petition that the county seat be 
moved nearer their center of population. Pendleton 
considered itself the logical site and when the petition 
was granted by the legislature, tho no definite place was 
decided upon, Judge Bailey in January, 1868, ordered 
the county officers to remove the records to Pendleton. 
This was done, but in lieu of a courthouse, Judge 
Bailey's cellar was the official repository. Judge Wil- 
son of Umatilla declared this removal premature and 
the records had to be carted back over the old Oregon 
Trail again to the Umatilla courthouse. 

While the question burned, Pendleton worked The 
change and location of a seat for the county, was not 
going to be delayed through any fault of theirs, besides, 
it was obvious that it should be at Pendleton, and now 
that they had made up their minds, they built a court- 
house in short order before the question was settled. 
But the matter held fire too long for the "go get 'em" 
spirit of the little town. Anyway, what's the use of 
having a courthouse and nothing to put in it ? 

On a certain week-end, a score of men, heavily 
armed, rode down "The Meadow," lying to the west of 
Pendleton along the river, across the desert, and under 
the cover of darkness that Saturday night entered Uma- 
tilla. Early the next morning at the hour when men 
and dogs sleep heaviest, in the very heart of Umatilla, 
they piled not only all of the records of the county and 

15 



LET 'ER BUCK 

the county seal, but the county officers themselves, in a 
commandeered wagon and under heavy mounted es- 
cort departed quickly, and deposited their official 
booty in the "courthouse" in Pendleton. 

"Why didn't they recapture it?" Well, they say 
because it was Sunday. 

In brief, they stole the county seat and have been 
sitting on it ever since. 

This happened in 1869. So when in 1910 a half 
dozen young men of Pendleton sat down over an im- 
promptu luncheon in Portland during the Rose Festi- 
val and originating the plan for the Round-Up, agreed 
to "Go get 'em", it was also a safe bet that they would 
put it over. 

The year before at the Pendleton Fourth of July ball 
game a saddle had been put up for the bucking event, 
and Lee Caldwell won it. The enthusiasm over this 
phase of the celebration left no doubt as to the eternal 
human interest in riding and horsemanship, and in the 
fight for supremacy between horse and rider. Roy 
Raley laid before the others a plan to stage a big fron- 
tier exhibition in which rough-riding for the cham- 
pionship of the Northwest should form the main 
feature, and the idea was then and there roped and 
hog-tied. 

Besides Roy Raley, Mark Moorhouse, Lawrence 
Frazier, Tilman Taylor, James Gwinn, Harry D. Gray, 
Lee Drake, Sperry and some others were the prime 
movers and organizers, but to the two former men 
should be credited the building of the framework of the 
show. Of those outside of Pendleton perhaps no sin- 
gle individual achieved more for the Round-Up than 
Samuel Jackson of the Oregon Journal, a former 
Pendleton boy, 

16 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

Under the name of the Northwestern Frontier Ex- 
hibition Association, "The Round-Up" was born, this 
name having bobbed up several times in repHes to the 
advertisements of the Association for a suitable appel- 
lation for the show. 

Six officers and a board of nine directors picked 
solely for their individual qualifications led the organi- 
zation, which comprised about two hundred and fifty 
of Pendleton business and financial men, Roy Raley, 
the first president and prime mover and organizer, 
wrote the initial program, which, it is interesting to 
know, has never been practically changed, starting fast 
and snappy with the cowboy pony race and following 
through a well-planned gamut of range sports of var- 
ious sorts; races, steer bulldogging and roping, grand 
parade, and last but not least, that king of sports, buck- 
ing. Eventually the contests led to the world cham- 
pionships competitions in these sports. 

Shares of ten dollars each were sold and but one 
share to a man. Supported by the citizens of Pendle- 
ton, the idea was backed up with a capitalization of 
$5,000, and $3,200 worth of stock was sold. Then 
a first directorate of fifteen prominent men of 
Umatilla County were elected to take charge of the 
Round-Up. Besides the president there were six 
officers, including the secretary and those in charge of 
grounds, live stock, arena events, Indians, transporta- 
tion, parade and publicity, and last those who acted as 
guardian angels over the Round-Up's interests to pre- 
vent profiteering. 

The problems were by no means simple ones, but as 
one of the original directorate remarked to me, that 
first Round-Up compared with the later great show, 
was like a couple of kids playing ball in the sand lot 

17 



LET 'ER BUCK 

as compared with a major league. The principal prob- 
lems were publicity, transportation of the attendance, 
and accommodation of the great crowds by the little 
city, then a trifle over five thousand. But the great 
problem was the show itself, as well as the arena, track, 
and methods of entrance and exit, not only for the 
crowds but for the contestants and animals. The en- 
trances and exits were uniquely and carefully planned, 
so as not to interfere with each other; a quarter of a 
mile track was determined upon as against the custom- 
ary half mile oval in order to bring the events within 
the easy vision of all the spectators. 

Then came the program itself. The events were di- 
vided into three classes, the competitive, non-competi- 
tive and Indians. Pep and snap must always be the 
prime characteristic of the show so there must be con- 
stant contact between the contestants and audience. No 
waits could even be chanced. There were always 
three events ready or on; always three paddocks and 
three openings, so in case any horse or contestant was 
not ready, they always had one and to spare to shoot 
in. 

It was at first suggested that a sham battle between 
soldiers from Vancouver Barracks and the Indians 
would splendidly depict the passing of the last fron- 
tier and furnish a thrilling climax. Here the first 
snag was encountered when they could not get soldiers ; 
and the second was the refusal of the Indians to come 
in and be shot at, even with blank shells. However, 
some of the old bucks agreed to come in if they were 
allowed to do the shooting, regardless of the nature of 
the shells. Then it was that the roping and bulldog- 
ging and horse-bucking ideas went over big. 

Old circus bleachers were placed around a track 

18 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

fenced in only by a three-board fence, and a grand- 
stand capable of seating three hundred, if crowded, was 
the crowning feature of the structure. Some of the 
directorate were so confident in the success of the ven- 
ture that they figured a maximum of about three 
thousand on the biggest day and bet hats and cham- 
pagne (sic) on the size of the crowd. 

Four thousand five hundred, a population almost as 
big as the little city itself, poured in on the banner day, 
giving receipts of about eight thousand dollars, and 
leaving a net profit of three thousand dollars for the 
stockholders. The price of single shares went from 
ten dollars to fifty and a telegram from a New York 
theatrical syndicate offered to buy the controlling in- 
terest at fifty dollars a share. 

Pendleton sat up and took notice, and right here the 
Pendleton spirit manifested itself. A stockholders' 
meeting was called. The stockholders were asked to 
give up their stock, practically to throw away not only 
the ten dollars they had paid for each share, but also 
the opportunity to sell that share for five times what 
they had paid for it, to give their show to the City of 
Pendleton, and then dig further into their pockets for 
an additional ten thousand to buy and build the present 
Round-Up grounds. What did they say? Let 'er 
buck!, that's all. And let 'er buck they did to the 
tune of an additional ten thousand dollars with which 
to buy and build the present Round-Up grounds. 

This property, the Round-Up Park, was deeded to 
the City of Pendleton, to which the Northwestern 
Frontier Exhibition Association pays one dollar a 
year for its use. The Association is a corporation in 
name only, and the stock is of the nominal value of 
ten dollars a share; but its only real value is the fact 

19 



LET 'ER BUCK 

that it has voting power. The stockholders still elect 
three directors and for that purpose alone the stock 
is worth thirty dollars a share. 

The compensation to the directors consists solely in 
being a director of the Round-Up. That's all. In 
fact it costs each one of them considerable money in 
addition to actual time and labor. They have to buy 
seats for themselves and folks, and sometimes being a 
director costs them another $52 for a box or what- 
ever it is, for friends. However, they did vote 
themselves one favor. On the night before the ticket 
sale numbers from one to eleven are put on pieces of 
paper and shaken in a hat. Each draws a number rep- 
resenting his place in the choice of seats, providing he 
pays for them out of his own pocket. The first presi- 
dent even was the seventh in his drawing; yet no 
men in any private business work more indefatigably 
and with greater sacrifice than do the directors to 
insure the success of the Round-Up, and the entire 
community stands back of them to a man. This is 
why the Pendleton Round-Up has developed from a 
little community affair to a national one. 

The first show was held in 1910 on what was then 
the ball park and on a little dinkey track, egg-shaped 
on account of the form of the grounds, hardly one- 
third as large as the present one. The home stretch in 
front of the grandstand probably did not exceed one 
hundred yards in length. The two or three Indian 
tepees skirting the other side were on the very edge of 
the river. The present copse of cottonwoods which 
forms the background of the great Indian village was 
then on an island, which the next year's improvement 
included in the Round-Up grounds. 

The second year saw the track extended to its pres- 

20 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

ent dimensions, its sudden enlargement being due to 
an incident which happened the first year in the Indian 
race at the opening of the show. The rules provided 
that all Indians should be clothed only in breech clout 
and paint and should ride their own ponies. One In- 
dian was painted from scalplock to toe in a vivid blue, 
standing out strikingly in contrast with the others. 

At the crack of the pistol they were away on a 
wet, muddy track. They struck the first turn, which 
was sharp and a veritable mudhole at the small end of 
the egg-shaped track. Down went the leader, the 
others piling on top. Every man went down and every 
horse piled up. Few escaped without some cut or 
bruise, while the blue Indian when he scrambled out 
had turned black in the mud; in fact there was not 
enough blue on him to make even the seat in a sailor's 
breeches. Raley was terribly perturbed, but Mark 
Moorhouse said, "Roy, the show's made." It was the 
first thrill, but to obviate such dangers, the plan of the 
quarter-njile track was put through before the show 
last year. 

Speaking of thrills, it will be interesting to comment 
on the careful and basic consideration given to the 
study of the psychological aspects of the plans. In or- 
ganizing the features of the entertainment, the meet- 
ings lasted often far into the night, the committee 
agreeing that the essentials of entertainment could 
be reduced to three — thrills, the spectacular and 
laughter. 

In their consideration of the thrill element they con- 
cluded that contests would take away all the element of 
affectation or acting in the mind of the participants, for 
in a contest of the kind adapted to the purpose of the 
Round-Up the contestant would have to concentrate 

21 



LET 'ER BUCK 

his attention on what he was doing and not on the 
impression he was making on the audience. So to 
achieve this as well as to hold the attention of the 
audience itself, it was decided that as far as possible, 
all the elements which went to make up the Old West 
were to be translated into competitive form. 

In consideration of the spectacular element they 
decided that the proper landscape effect and setting was 
the primary consideration. A small gully, a remnant 
of the river bed, was left unfilled, which really pre- 
vented anything being built directly in front of the 
Indian camp and gave a sunken landscape foreground 
from which the Indian camp could be seen. Next, by 
leaving the back stretch of the track free from bleach- 
ers and filling this in with mounted cowboys, these 
hundreds of horsemen in colored shirts, kerchiefs and 
garb produced a magnificent spectacle as seen across 
from the grandstand with the Indian tepees and the 
cottonwoods for a stage setting, framed by the golden 
hills of Oregon behind. The climax of this spectacle 
was the great number of cowboys and Indians in the 
arena in serpentine and other convolutions, terminat- 
ing in a great charge across it, almost into the laps of 
the spectators — it hit them in the face with over- 
whelming numbers. 

Laughter, strange as it may seem in the humor-lov- 
ing West, was the hardest element of all to handle. 
It was impossible to figure out any comedy that would 
not be produced at the expense of the naturalness and 
historic quality which above all they decided to retain, 
and which above all must be retained as the vital ele- 
ment in the show. They wisely decided they would 
not make any deliberate attempt to plant comedy, and 
that they would leave it to accidental incidents. 

22 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

Thus the fundamental and basic asset of the show 
was its psychological verity. But its success could 
not possibly be assured, unless there was a spirit and 
community interest back of it. So its organizers 
wisely aimed to make everybody feel himself a part of 
the show. This spirit exists in both grandstand and 
bleachers and in town as well, and is contagious to both 
the contestants and visitors. Everybody in Pendleton 
begins a week before the Round-Up to bring in their 
saddle horses from the ranges and don their ranch 
clothes to swell the mounted contingent, both in the 
parade and in the great spectacle of the arena. 

And here are the two feature results — the feeling of 
community spirit in townsman and visitor, and particu- 
larly the fact that the cowboy and Indian consider the 
celebration as their own : the spectators are incidental, 
they do it mostly for their own satisfaction. And if 
the future Round-Up committees and the people of 
Pendleton hold fast to these guiding principles which 
the primal organizers and time have proved out, the 
Round-Up and its spirit will endure, as long as there is 
a bad horse to ride and a cowboy to ride it, a steer to 
be roped and a "boy" to rope it, or an Indian with a 
war-bonnet and a squaw to make it. 

The "Round-Up" means the gathering together of 
the men, women — yes, and animals too — of the ranges 
for a three-days' festival of cowboy sports and pas- 
times. It is to that section of the West what the county 
fair is to certain sections of the East, but with this dif- 
ference : the seventy thousand people who journey to 
the little city of Pendleton, with its seven thousand 
population, are drawn from all quarters of the United 
States, Canada, and Mexico, and even from across the 
oceans. 

23 



LET 'ER BUCK 

One may well ask why this little through-track town 
draws such a stream of humanity on such a pilgrimage, 
and holds them in a tense grip for three days and then 
sends them away satisfied and enthusiastic. First and 
foremost, the Round-Up is clean, pure sport, and 
makes its appeal to the thousands who journey to Pen- 
dleton every year to see those three primary attractions 
of a frontier exhibition — the riding of a bucking horse, 
the roping of a wild steer, and the buUdogging of a 
Texas longhorn. 

Pendleton is in the heart of the range country and 
was once an outfitting station on the Umatilla stage 
route. Thus it is particularly adapted in location, set- 
ting, and understanding, but perhaps preeminently 
through its united effort, to give full measure and to 
eliminate graft. In fact, although $1,500,000 has been 
spent by the Round-Up attendance and $35,000 cleared 
as profits, this community play of the West is not a 
money-making scheme, staged as it is by a volunteer 
organization and paying neither salaries nor dividends. 
The directors are leading business men of the city, 
many of whom are also ranchers, who serve without 
pay ; all citizens cooperate with them, keep open-house, 
and outdo themselves in extending hospitality to 
visitors. 

Prior to the first Round-Up the committee had hard 
work convincing the railroads that it was necessary to 
plan ahead for accommodations, but after the Pendle- 
tonians got behind it, the interest spread like a prairie 
fire. There was such a demand that the railroads 
themselves began to get uneasy and sent their agent a 
number of times to Pendleton to advise them that the 
crowd would be so great that Pendleton itself did not 
know what they were up against. Didn't they ? 

24 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

But here again the loyal and efficient backing of Sam 
Jackson bore fruit, for through the Oregon Journal 
he organized parties, himself guaranteeing the first 
train, and then through the splendid cooperation of the 
railroad and Pendleton established the custom of or- 
ganizing parties, from Portland and elsewhere. These 
round trip tickets covered all accommodations includ- 
ing meals — not only while on the journey but while in 
Pendleton, — reserved seats in both the Round-Up 
grandstand and Happy Canyon, the night show. Visi- 
tors came on special trains which were parked on 
sidings in the heart of the town in full view of the 
Main Street and the Westward Ho Parade. Here 
water, sewage, electric light and telephone connections 
were at once installed in the cars. 

After the first Round-Up it was Sam Jackson who 
realized the underlying spirit which has made for the 
success of the Round-Up, and expressed it so clearly 
when asked by the first president what he thought of 
the show, in the reply, "You haven't got a show here ; 
it's an institution." 

"What is done with the profits?" There is a man 
who, like many others in the throng, wears a red badge. 
On it letters in gold read : "Ask me, I live here." He 
will tell you that the profits go to the city of Pendleton 
for the next year's Round-Up, but, principally for the 
benefit and improvement of this progressive and at- 
tractive city, primarily for the making of the city park 
which includes the Round-Up Grounds. 

Moreover, when the great call came to stem and hurl 
back that colossal martial Juggernaut, the vehicle of 
that Organized State of Mind called Germany, which 
threatened to quash the spirit of humanity and lay 
waste the fruits of world democracy of which Amer- 

25 



LET 'ER BUCK 

ica is the outstanding symbol, then the spirit of the peo- 
ple of little Pendleton and hereabouts, laid in the lap of 
Liberty at her first call over one million golden dollars 
and consecrated their Round-Up to the Nation to 
which it belongs and poured its proceeds into the cof- 
fers of the American Red Cross. Thus, little wonder 
is it that, altho the Round-Up is essentially a local insti- 
tution, a civic possession just as much as is the school 
system or fire department, it is more than that. Be- 
cause of its significance and because of its spirit it be- 
longs to all Umatilla County and the whole state of 
Oregon, and has become a part of the great American 
play-book. 

They were driving cattle out of Pendleton as late as 
1888. From there they were driven across Idaho to 
Wyoming and some clear to Montana, in herds of a 
few thousand, where they were sold to some of the big 
outfits. The biggest outfit was Ryan & Long. There 
were also Ray & Steadman, the Swan Company, a big 
English concern which came West, and others. These 
big outfits would buy from ten to twenty thousand 
head of beef cattle from Pendleton, by which is meant 
cattle old enough and heavy enough to sell. 

Then the country changed over from a cattle to a 
wheat country, and changed pretty quickly. But still 
quite a lot of sheep are run, and there are still a few 
small herds left, while horse ranges may be found in the 
Crooked River and Harney Valley country; and there 
is also a lot of open country around Camas Prairie, 
where the Indians used to dig their camas, and from 
the Pendleton point of view this means the region be- 
ginning about twenty miles south and running to the 
Nevada line. While this country is farmed some, it 
really is range country for three hundred miles. 

26 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

Any time during the year one may see cowboys, 
ranch hands, old-timers and Indians about the streets 
of Pendleton, but a few days before the Round-Up 
Pendleton has all the appearance of a cow town. 
Chapped and booted cowboys, riding that inimitable 
close saddle, pass frequently to the jingle of chain and 
spur, or loll in picturesque groups at the sidewalk 
edges, where, in characteristic, well-modulated voices, 
the relative merits of "bucker" and "buckaroo" are 
discussed at length. 

The ''get up" of the American cowboy comes the 
nearest of any we have, to being a national costume and 
is by far the most picturesque, as well as practical, from 
Stetson to spurs, for like most national costumes there 
is a practical reason for every appurtenance of it. His 
broad-brimmed hat with its soft color, casting a softer 
shadow beneath, has become the crown of these mon- 
archs of the range and is usually his first consideration 
—his hat, which must be of a character to protect his 
eyes against scorching sun and driving rain, is often 
ornamented with a woven silver star or circled with a 
multi-colored horsehair band of Indian workmanship, 
or with a leather strap, black and silver studded. The 
sombreros vary in styles and shapes, all of which have 
their names, and the method of creasing, pointing, 
crushing or rolling the brim varies with the locality 
or with the individual whim of the owner ; but in what- 
ever shape or form, this characteristically American 
headgear is one of the most becoming and practical 
types of hats to be found. 

The cowboy's loose flannel shirt with turn-down 
collar is warm and comfortable, and protected at the 
wrists by long leather cuffs of brown or black, tight- 
fitting at the wrists, which keep the wind out of his 

27 



LET 'ER BUCK 

sleeves and protect his wrists and forearm from being 
burnt witli a rope. His chapps, from chappareros, 
the leather over-breeches, were first worn to protect 
clothes and legs against the thorny chapparal or brush 
of the southwest, and the old-time fringes, or more 
modern broad wings, shed rain — as do the more dis- 
tinctively Northwest type of angora goat's hair chaps 
— and likewise keep the wearer warm. 

His boots, often fancifully stitched with colored 
thread, their tops slit front and back, with heels high 
enough to inspire the envy of a little French grisette, 
serve the purpose of preventing his being hung up in 
his stirrup. His dull-pointed clanking spurs are for 
emergency on the range, and whether they should be 
worn, shanks up or down, depends on the part of the 
country he is from and is one of the moot questions of 
the West. About Pendleton the downs have it. 

That fluttering, shimmering thing of color, the ker- 
chief, is most characteristic of the Round-Up. You 
will notice that its small end is tied with the loop worn 
in front — just the reverse from a sailor's kerchief — 
but there's a reason. Run cattle in the choking dust 
of a corral or follow them in the blinding dust storms 
of the range, and your kerchief will soon be drawn 
tight over the bridge of your nose. 

It is on Saturday nights, or more especially during 
the Round-Up when the boys ride in from the ranches, 
that you see them outfitting in the high-grade shops of 
the city, which carry for this occasion particularly gala- 
colored shirts of sheening silk or rich velvet, and stud- 
ded on collar, front and forearm with pearl buttons as 
flat and big as dollars, and kerchiefs which would make 
any self-respecting rainbow pale with envy. 

On the corner a big-sombreroed, swarthy Mexican 

28 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

puffs silently on his cigarillo; moccasin- footed Uma- 
tilla Indians pigeon-toe along, trailed by heavy-set pa- 
poose-bearing squaws and beautiful daughters, paus- 
ing before the allurements in the display windows. 
Among the fancy and useful objects, naturally the 
beautiful blankets and shawls make the greatest appeal 
not only to the passing Indian woman, but to the white. 
Altho these are of local manufacture they find their 
markets in the shops of Edinburgh and the bazaars 
of Peking. 

An occasional cowgirl, in fringed buckskin or riding 
costume, strolls by with that unobtrusiveness which is 
a salient characteristic of these range women. Any 
reader of men sees, however, beneath this natural care- 
free poise a glint in the eye which tells of a self-control 
and fearless courage that is also capable of reckless 
daring. 

The harness and saddlery stores naturally attract. 
Worm through that crowd screening the show win- 
dows of a big harness and saddlery store — there where 
it's densest, — and you will see the most coveted prize 
of the whole show, the Round-Up saddle which will go 
to the winner of the cowboys' bucking contest for the 
championship of the world. It is exquisitely hand- 
tooled from horn and cantel to skirts and tapideros; 
but that's not all, — it's artistically studded and inlaid 
at certain points with big silver medallions; this year 
they happen to be very finely etched discs, last year they 
were silver butterflies. 

"That's sure worth five hundred bucks, just as it sez 
on the card, with all that sculpturin' 'n' everything," 
remarks the new comer. 

"You tell 'em, stranger, that's branding it," chimes 
in "Red" Parker, and he ought to know for he rode in 

29 



LET 'ER BUCK 

for it last year. "But say," he continued, "There's 
more than one kind 'o strings ter that saddle. There's 
four hundred and fifty bucks and a fancy plaster 
hitched to it ter put on yer wall if yer don't need it ter 
take yer soreness out. The next feller gits two hun- 
dred bucks and the third an even hundred." 

"Ugh! Hi-yu-skookum saddle," grunted old Chief 
Little Hawk with a grin. 

Those two sturdy buckaroos beside the drinking 
fountain are Jim Roach of Bell Cow Canyon and Bert 
Kelly of Walla Walla, both champions among the 
early contestants who helped to make the Round-Up a 
success. Jim Roach is the star maverick race roper. 
There is Ella Lazinka, who finished in the grand finals 
one year in the cowgirls' relay race, though a large 
fence splinter had torn her leg in the second lap. She 
will be at her high-school lessons the Monday after 
the Round-Up. 

When the stranger is not at the "tryouts" and elim- 
ination contests he will find much of interest in the 
bookshops, photographers and other splendid stores 
in the center of the city; or on the way to the iron 
works, he can look over the splendid big stores of 
agricultural implements, tractors or farm machinery, 
see how the Indian design blankets are made at the 
woolen mills, or inspect the great flour mills which 
hum their grinding night and day. Pendleton is not 
only the focal point in, and county seat of one of the 
greatest wheat countries of the United States, but is 
the great emporium for trade for much of Eastern 
Oregon. 

When the call for men to help their country in the 
war against autocracy came, Pendleton said, "Let's 
go!" When the news spread over the range country 

30 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

that a troop of cowboy cavalry was to be organized to 
whip the Kaiser and his ranch hands, of course the 
cowboys "saddled on" and came riding in from the 
Blue Mountains and the John Day country, some cover- 
ing over one hundred and fifty miles. 

The first move made to secure this cavalry troop was 
by Dell Blancett; but our government did not move 
fast enough for Dell, and he was shortly on his way 
"over there" with the Canadian cavalry. 

The troop, like the Round-Up, was promptly organ- 
ized through the cooperation of leading cowboys, busi- 
ness men of Pendleton and ranchers. Probably that 
company of a hundred, hardy, courageous Umatilla 
County cowboys — every one of them could ride and 
shoot — was the greatest rough-riding contingent ever 
organized into the United States army. 

Lee Caldwell, the greatest rider of bucking horses in 
the West and the second man to enlist, was elected 
captain. James F. Cook, who had served as sergeant 
of Troop A on the Mexican border, was appointed 
First Lieutenant; Marshall Spell, who had served in 
old Company L in Pendleton, was Second "Lieuy." Eu- 
gene Walters, top sergeant, and other members who 
had had some military experience, were appointed "non- 
coms," over as fine a looking lot of horsemen as ever 
sat saddles, but the rawest kind of recruits. 

Roll call mustered famous names in Round-Up an- 
nals, with which you will be familiar after you have 
seen the great show. There was Ben Corbett, one of 
the first to sign up, all-round cowboy and champion 
relay and Roman rider, a former top-sergeant in 
the regular cavalry, but who later transferred; Frank 
Cable, former bulldogger, w^as stable sergeant; there 
was Tracy Lane, the cowboy poet and songster, and 

31 



LET 'ER BUCK 

one of the greatest horse-gentlers in the country, who 
with "Jock" Coleman, cowboy, ranch-hand and Scotch 
comedian, made a top-notch pair of entertainers. 
There, too, were CharHe Runyan, who has ridden at 
nearly every Round-Up; Leslie McCubbins, a well- 
known rider, and many others. 

By the middle of July the troop was mobilized, with 
the Happy Canyon dance-hall as their temporary quar- 
ters. The strenuous daily routine of foot drill was 
pretty hard on many of the cowboys, unused to walk- 
ing; but the big blisters didn't lessen their enthusiasm. 
It wasn't, however, the easiest thing to make all 
of these individualists see at once the necessity of 
exactitude in the method of drill and obedience to 
orders. 

Many of them figured that, give them a good horse 
and a six-shooter, they'd undertake to ride into Berlin. 
If it was not necessary to get the Kaiser and Von 
Hindenburg dead, why, they'd rope 'em! But they 
sure could not figure out why they had to stand guard 
and drill on foot when they went into the cavalry. 

"Aboot face!" commanded Sergeant Coleman, who 
had served his time with a "Ladies from Hell" regi- 
ment before the war. 

Jess Brunn, a tall, finely set-up type of cowboy, later 
as snappy a soldier as there was in the outfit, could not 
seem to connect. Time and again he tried, but the 
high heels of his boots seemed as rebellious as their 
owner. 

"Place th' toe of yer-r-r-r-r-r-ight foot behind and 
to the left of the heel of — " 

This was a little more than Jess could stand. It was 
the most sudden breaking of ranks the outfit had seen, 
when the strings of control of Jess's otherwise quiet 

32 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

demeanor snapped, and like a mountain lion he sprang 
from the hne, fists up and clenched. 

"Look here! I'm man enough to lick any 

man in this 

outfit, or any officer either, that tries to tell me how 
I've got to turn around." 

Orders to entrain for Camp Withycombe at Clacka- 
mas came. Portland, always such a loyal friend to 
Pendleton and the Round-Up, seemed to turn out en 
masse as the outfit went through, while word that the 
Pendleton bunch was arriving, set the entire camp agog. 
But if they expected a slicked-up, uniformed nurse- 
maids-to-horses troop to march with eyes front and 
120 steps to the minute, they had a surprise — 
for of all the picturesque, care-free, self-contained 
contingents that ever pulled into camp this "wild 
bunch" was the wooliest outfit. There was no senti- 
ment lost in their make-up, although there was a lot 
to be found in it. 

The only uniform they swung, was that of their 
calling. Their broad-brimmed sombreros with leather 
strap or braided band of horsehair went a-wobbling 
and a-milling by like a herd of steers; red or other 
colored shirts and kerchiefs with heavy trousers, most 
of them tucked into high-heeled boots, covered their 
lean, hard-muscled figures as they clumped along through 
the company streets. A few wore chapps, but under 
the coat of almost every man-Jack of them there 
slightly bulged the handle of a .45, concealed like a 
bustle on behind. 

It was a hard, he-man bunch, but no harder than the 
big barrel of cider which headed the procession, flanked 
on either side by the captain and lieutenants respective- 
ly, followed by the thirsty gang. 

33 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Then came the weeks of whipping into shape. 
Rifles had been issued but two days, when they got 
some ammunition — heaven knows where they rustled 
it. Suddenly the entire camp was greeted with a fusil- 
lade which might have been mistaken for a Boche bar- 
rage, only to find that Troop D was tossing into the air 
from the middle of their company street, tin cans, bot- 
tle-necks and nickels, and shooting them on bets — hit- 
ting 'em, too. 

The other companies stood in wholesome awe and 
respect of the men of Troop D. This feeling was 
somewhat crudely expressed, perhaps, by one recruit 
from a little jerk-water town on the other side of the 
state line to a new recruit in his company. "Don't get 
mixed up with any of that Pendleton bunch. They 
don't fight with their fists, — they just shoot." 

Well, it was not a bad "rep" to have, as none of the 
Pendleton outfit denied it — and there were a few who 
did not have to. Even nickels flipped high in the air 
dropped plugged, before the unerring aim of many of 
these men. But, probably, no more marvelous shot 
was found in the entire United States army than "Tex 
Winchester," as Howard L. Knutson was called. He 
was an old ranger and the quickest on the draw in the 
outfit. Their confidence in Tex, as well as their nerve, 
was shown when any one of Troop D would stand 
with a cigarette in his mouth and let "Tex" shoot off 
the ashes. The climax of his remarkable feat was 
reached, though, when he did the same trick with his 
front sight covered with a piece of paper, slipped on 
the muzzle of his rifle. 

Perhaps the hardest nut for the saddle-warming out- 
fit to crack, was why they had to drill on foot when 
they went into the cavalry. Charlie Runyan never did 

34 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

quite figure it out. He'd never walked before, and 
until he was shod with the Munson last, he was foot- 
sore and worn down to the quick, marching up and 
down in riding boots. 

One night along came Major Charles McDonald, 
courageous, loyal McDonald, one of the first of Ore- 
gon's sons to make the great sacrifice. Runyan, seeing 
him approach in the darkness, gripped his shooting 
iron. 

"Hell! Look who's here!" says Charlie. 

There was dead silence for a minute. Then follow- 
ed an introductory calling-down, which we will omit. 

"What were your orders?" 

"Well, sir — I was told to say 'Halt! Who goes 
there!'" 

"Well, you didn't. You said, 'Hell ! Look who's 
here!'" 

"Beg pardon, sir. I meant to say, Halt! Who 
goes there!' " 

Runyan, in many ways the life of the company, 
survived the above mentioned ordeal with the major, 
to come near not surviving the deadly German gas. 

The soldier timber of this outfit as soon as they had 
barked a little of the rough off, proved to be sec- 
ond to none and Troop D, 3d Oregon Cavalry, was 
later turned into one of the most efficient batter- 
ies — the 148th Field Artillery. They swung their 155 
millimeter G. P. F.'s into position at Chateau Thierry. 
Over the shady roads of fair France, beyond the 
Hindenburg line, along the shell-pockmarked roads 
and landscape blighted by the Teuton scourge, their 
guns, limbers and trucks rattled their way to skilful 
and determined driving. The ruined walls of St. 
Mihiel, the Woods of Belleau and the Valley of the 

35 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Argonne echoed to their old slogans, "Powder River" 
and "Let 'er buck." Every American regiment 
within their line of march, as well as the French, be- 
came well acquainted with this little bunch of Eastern 
Oregon cowboys and their slogan, and more particu- 
larly with the spirit of the West and the America 
which they symbolized. 

On every article of furniture of that outfit, guns, 
trucks, cases, was painted the Round-Up's epic slogan 
and graced too with a picture of that Pegasus of the 
West and his rider — the cowboy on a bucking horse. 

At the end of the great drive, this outfit was cited 
twice by the French government and once by our own. 
Back in Pendleton, as quickly as they could corral their 
range togs, they dove again into their chapps and high- 
heeled boots and dispersed to the ranges; and true to 
cowboy nature left other bards to sing their praises. 

Pendleton has a way of its own in extending its 
hospitality in receiving its city's visitors, and William 
McAdoo and his party will remember for some time 
the long line of chapped and booted mounted Pendle- 
tonians drawn up on the sidewalk at the railroad sta- 
tion to receive him when his train pulled in to the 
Round-Up. He was promptly adorned with full cow- 
boy regalia and a splendid mount. In these he made a 
great hit in the Arena when, instead of the conven- 
tional rocking-horse lope of the average dignitary, to 
the surprise of the crowd he gave his horse free rein 
like a real cowboy. He will remember too how they 
boosted the well-known Cheyenne prima donna, big 
Charlie Irwin, up on a cart while he shook his ropes 
off, from his famous world's championship love dit- 
tie Alfalfa Hay, and sang it in his droll, serious man- 
ner to the tune of "Bury My Bones in Alcohol," 

36 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

"Alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, 
"You're the sweetest weed that grows, alfalfa hay." 

The chorus was equally touching : 

"Alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, 
"You're the sweetest weed that grows, alfalfa hay." 

Bill will also remember "Slim" Allen, the tall, husky 
cowpuncher who measured over a couple of inches 
taller than McAdoo himself. When Slim had got 
acquainted a bit he rustled up to him and seized him 
by the arm, saying : 

"I'm going to whip hell out of you this afternoon!" 

Pendleton will always remember McAdoo's reply, 
when, looking his man in the eye he quietly replied, 
"Well, we will see about that later." 

But the "McAdoo" Slim referred to was the horse 
named in honor of the distinguished visitor whom he 
had drawn to ride in the bucking contest — which to 
Bill's satisfaction, in about five bucks landed his rider 
in Round-Up park. 

Just as in the Round-Up arena the events portray 
more especially the work of the range, and in Happy 
Canyon, the night show is shown the life of the fron- 
tier town, so the Westward Ho Parade, as it wends its 
way along the pavements of little Pendleton on the 
Saturday or last morning of each annual Round-Up, 
presents a panorama which epitomizes the Old West — 
the Old West on the move. Led by the mounted cow- 
boy band, with the Governor of Oregon usually in the 
place of honor, icame the president and members of 
the Round-Up committee, clean-cut ranchmen and 
stockmen types, heading the parade. These committee- 



LET 'ER BUCK 

men have turned their attention also to manufacture, 
merchandise, banking and law, and are the brains of 
this marvelous passion play of the West. Then come 
the range types that delight the painter and molder of 
clay, vigorous, keen eyed, modest, and primitively 
natural and likable. You see all the familiar charac- 
ters you have become acquainted with at the tryouts 
or seen in the contests. 

There, too, you see the old time West literally 
stalking in the flesh. The floats of the hunter, the 
pioneer, the Indian, the gambler and others symbolize 
its epic episodes. There go the oxcart, the chuck- 
wagon, the freighter, the prairie schooner and the In- 
dian travois. No advertising, no autos or any modern 
innovations are allowed to mar the historic pictur- 
esquesness of this revival of the past, then come the 
Indians in a swirl of color and trappings which sight 
is alone worth your long journey. 

That heavy-set packer with the long string of pack 
mules is Bill Russell. Bill's hospitable ranch home 
nestles invitingly under a grove of trees just this side 
of Walla Walla. The old hide packs, so well "hitched" 
on, have a history, too — they are what the Indians 
didn't want or didn't have time to take when they were 
left strewn along the slopes of the Little Big Horn 
after the Custer massacre. Bill's father was with Reno 
at the time they gathered some of them up, so here 
they are. 

Anyone would know by the way that old-timer 
maneuvers the reins of one of the stagecoach outfits 
that it is but second nature, and so it is to old Dave 
Horn who has handled reins, brake and lash over the 
trail on his daily runs from Cayuse to Umatilla in the 
old days, and has been recognized for years as the 

38 



OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

best six-line skinner that ever drove over the Blue 
Mountains. Along behind, trudges gray-grizzled, 
bearded Frank Beagle, another old-timer and pros- 
pector, his burro loaded with the same outfit he panned 
and dug with across a span of years, 

I rode beside an old scout, H. C. (Hank) Cap- 
linger, and somehow — just by fate perhaps — old 
"Hank" was left out of history along with Peg Leg 
Smith. We halted for a spell for the line to lengthen 
out. "Yes, it's a Dutch name," old Hank told me, 
"but I guess I'm Irish." 

"When did you come out?" 

"Crossed the plains with an ox team in '45. Scouted 
for the government and fit in Indian scraps; two in 
Montana, others in Southern Oregon, Northern Cali- 
fornia, and in the Pitt River country. That's where I 
was wounded. Of all the damned renegades that 
crowd was the worst. I was with one hundred and 
thirty Warm Spring Oregon Indians and Donald 
McKay, a half-breed ranger and scout, and by God, 
the best trailer that ever started out. Run 'em for over 
two and a half months through the mountains. Run 
'em down and got every mother's son of 'em. And 
scalped every one of 'em, too. Been buckarooing in 
every country where a white man dared to go and 
never been arrested for stealing yet. Most of the time 
I was with Buffalo Bill, Kit Carson and Peg Leg 
Smith, and Peg Leg Smith was the gamest man in the 
whole damn outfit, but he was never writ up." 

Then the contingent moved on through the crowds. 
Yes, there is many a hero of the West, unheralded, be- 
cause "he never was writ up." 



39 



CHAPTER TWO 
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

Many an old-time pioneer of to-day of scarce four- 
score years, need but close his eyes to vision backward 
to the time when the star empire rested on Oregon's in- 
terminable forests, flowering, undulating prairie lands 
of limitless bunchgrass, and on her fish-filled cascad- 
ing streams, to trace through her eight decades of ad- 
venturous, romantic, progressive story. This story was 
not a tale of a contest with nature only, but with men, 
of law and order against lawlessness and terror — the 
ever-old story of the frontiers of civilization. These 
sturdy, self-respecting pioneers, settlers and mission- 
aries of Oregon, ahead as they were of territorial gov- 
ernment, were a sufficint law unto themselves and it 
is recorded that the first decade of Oregon history was 
without law-statute law — and yet not a crime was com- 
mitted in the American settlement. In 1841, however, 
the first provisional court west of the Missouri River, 
a probate court, was organized. 

When that beckoning Circe of man's cupidity — gold 
— was discovered in California, then in Oregon, the 
promise of easy wealth flooded the country with out- 
laws — the gambler, highwayman, horse and cattle thief 
and all-round bad man, while saloons and gambling 
joints sprang up like mushrooms in a night. During 

40 



TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

these formative days when law was flouted and defied 
by these desperadoes, many of them gravitated to the 
mining camps of Eastern Oregon. They seemed to be 
a conscienceless type. Many were men "wanted" or 
not wanted in the East; many of them not only made 
highway robbery a profession, but openly boasted of it. 

Thus a form of organized brigandage developed. 
No sheriff could bring in a criminal to justice without 
becoming a victim of the "gang." This order of 
things held sway and whole communities were terror- 
ized until the law-respecting citizens organized into 
vigilance committees and courts against these outlaws, 
these law-preservers being known as "vigilantes." The 
"short cut" was sometimes administered to some of 
the worst by way of the "short end of a halter rope." 

Among the names written blackest in this North- 
west story are those of Romaine and his terrible band, 
one of whom remarked to the outfit when about to 
swing for his crimes, "Good-bye, boys. I'll meet you 
in hell in fifteen minutes." There was the famous 
McNab and the notorious "Hank" Vaughan raised in 
The Dalles, who always slept with gun in hand. It 
was he who, when fleeing from pursuit with a band of 
horses he had rustled, killed the sheriff of Umatilla 
and wounded the deputy. 

Since then, there have been and probably always will 

be, men who for one reason or the other live outside 

the law. Those days were days of frontier terrors in 

which the outlaw outdevilled the Indian and where the 

.45 was often a man's best friend. They were days, 

too, of romance and adventure, a vestige of which still 

remains here and there in the dying embers which 

the flame of conquest has left on scorched remnants 

of a primitive frontier. 

41 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Such were the conditions which molded the stal- 
wart, dauntless men who held taut the reins of order 
and government. But perhaps to no one class of men 
can the law, pioneers and our government ascribe 
greater tribute than to the \vestern sheriff, watchdog 
of the peace and upholder of justice. To the memory 
of no recent sheriff can Oregon, the West, the United 
States pay greater tribute than to that of the late 
Tilman D. Taylor of Pendleton, "Til" Taylor to 
Oregon and the Northwest — just plain "Til" to his 
friends and acquaintances. Not only as sheriff of 
Umatilla County and as second president of the 
Round-Up, which office he held for eight years, since 
the first year of its inception, but as the outstanding 
figure among the sheriffs of the West of to-day, 
Til Taylor's character and record is as remarkable 
as it was romantic. 

His career of upholding the law began twenty-two 
years ago. The railroad had reached Pendleton a short 
ten years before and the country was still in its meta- 
morphosis from stock ranges to wheat lands. Pendleton 
was very different from the trim progressive city of to- 
day. It was then a small town of about three thousand 
people. Like many a western town of that day, gam- 
bling houses were run wide open, and there were at one 
time twenty-seven saloons. Those days were a bit wild 
and wooly, and the sheriff could walk the streets and 
know just what criminals were in town; so when 
something happened he could almost pick the man who 
had committed the crime. 

The horse thief, "stick-up man" and "cattle rustlers" 
were wary of the late sheriff, for he had never lost a 
horse thief and could identify a horse regardless of its 
condition. He had an intuition that was almost uncan- 

42 



TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

ny in handling criminals, and his ability to spot men 
with whom he had come into previous contact, or of 
whom he had received descriptions, was exceptional. 

One remarkable illustration of this occurred in 191L 
Taylor was after a man sixty-five years of age on a local 
charge, and to identify him had nothing but a photo- 
graph which he selected from the files of the Walla 
Walla penitentiary. This picture was of a man 
twenty years old, and clean shaven, but proved to be 
the same man arrested forty years later who had a 
heavy growth of beard and mustache and features con- 
siderably altered. 

His ability to recognize criminals was attributed to 
his manner of studying men. He had a system of 
observation of his own, which was to study carefully 
the features of the upper face, particularly the nose, 
eyes and ears. The application of this can be appre- 
ciated in a country where the mask often consists of 
a kerchief tied over the bridge of the nose and whiskers 
were not an uncommon hirsutian adornment. 

Three men who broke jail in Pendleton in 1915 were 
run down after a twenty mile chase in the mountains 
and captured single handed by Sheriff Taylor. They 
were drinking at a spring, when what was their con- 
sternation to find themselves covered by Taylor's gun 
before they had time to draw. 

Out of twenty-eight men who broke jail from Uma- 
tilla County, Sheriff Taylor returned twenty-six to the 
same cells, while the other two were located elsewhere 
in the country, one now being in a penitentiary in the 
East. Over two thousand five hundred arrests, the 
vast majority of which were followed with convictions, 
and much work in connection with famous crime 
mysteries, as well as the apprehension and bringing to 

43 



LET 'ER BUCK 

justice of many escaped convicts from eastern and 
southern states, are credited to his office. In fact, a 
record of the daring captures of this noted typical 
sheriff would fill a volume with true stories, vying in 
thrills with those portrayed on the movie screen or 
read in the pages of Wild West magazines. 

One of the most desperate episodes occurred after 
bank robbers had blown a safe at Hermiston, forty 
miles from Pendleton, toward the Columbia River, to 
which place Taylor immediately and unerringly track- 
ed them, and captured them single-handed. While 
holding the struggling prisoner with one hand, he 
fought a revolver duel with the pal of the prisoner, 
who first opened fire from a telegraph pole. This was 
the only time in the memory of those who served under 
him that the late sheriff ever shot to kill. 

A strange fate caused Taylor's cartridges to jam in 
his gun, forcing him to quit firing; but he brought 
back the first prisoner. Tracing the second robber 
through three states, Taylor finally checked up on him 
in Montana. The bandit was then brought to the Mult- 
nomah County jail in Portland, and here occurred an 
example of Taylor's uncanny ability to visualize a man 
and unerringly memorize his face, for out of a group 
of sixty men, Taylor picked him out, identifying him 
weeks, possibly months, after having seen him only 
once under distracting circumstances and then from 
behind a telegraph pole. 

In early July of 1920, about the time the great com- 
bines were starting to garner the first of Umatilla 
County's vast golden wealth of wheat, word came into 
the sheriff's office at Pendleton of a hold-up staged a 
few miles east of the city by two bandits showing all 
the earmarks of desperadoes. Taylor and deputies 

44 



TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

soon picked up their trail and came upon them near 
the little hamlet of Reith in the canyon. 

Then came a running gun fight. Deputy Jacob 
Marin captured the first bandit who traveled under the 
alias of Neil Hart; — but his "pardner" under the alias 
of Jim Owens, the more desperate of the two, took 
to the hills pursued by Taylor, and a hide-and-seek 
chase and gun duel, with life and death the stakes, and 
odds even, was witnessed by the people of Reith in 
the valley below. Playing one another, crouching like 
panthers, they eventually closed in, Taylor getting the 
drop on his man. 

Like a flash Owens with the movements of a cat 
grabbed the sheriff's gun, attempting to turn it on his 
captor; but he did not count on the power of Taylor's 
grip. Most men would have shot his man, but Tay- 
lor, adhering to his policy of never killing a man to 
capture him, soon had the outlaw in front of him 
covered, and jailed him in Pendleton. 

On a hot Sunday afternoon two weeks later, the 
streets of little Pendleton were all but deserted. Those 
who were not at the ball game at Round-Up Park were 
resting in the cool shade of house or veranda. Even 
the courthouse, in which the jail is ensconced, was de- 
serted. About a quarter of two Deputy Sheriff Jacob 
Marin with the help of Louis Anderson, a trusty he 
had taken out with him, entered the jail with the mid- 
day meal for the prisoners. Anderson, having noticed 
that no one but the deputy was about the courthouse, 
signaled to his companions that the coast was clear. 
Marin was shortly dispensing the dinner to the 
prisoners. 

Crack ! He was felled from behind by John Rathie, 
a prisoner, with a heavy stick of cordwood, striking his 

45 



LET 'ER BUCK 

head against the iron raihng. All but stunned, half 
crouching, he reached for his gun. But his arm was 
seized by Neil Hart, who dodged just in time a power- 
ful swing of the bunch of keys by the gritty warden. 

Thud! Again a terrific blow crashed upon Marin's 
head. Even then, unable to tie the hands or stop the 
calls for assistance of the half-dazed but struggling 
warden, it required the combined efforts of the prison- 
ers to carry him to a nearby cell and throw over the 
bolt. Taking no chance with such a desperate fighter 
even though imprisoned, they left one man, Dick Pat- 
terson, to guard him while four of them. Hart, Owens, 
Rathie and Lingren having the keys, entered the 
sheriff's office. Lingren lit out at once for fresh air. 
Led by Owens and determined to escape at all cost, the 
others immediately began ransacking the office. Re- 
volvers were secured at once, but not the ammunition 
which it had always been the sheriff's habit to keep 
hidden. 

Papers, books, everything was being strewn all over 
the place in their hurried search, and it was upon this 
scene that Taylor and Guy Wyrick, a close personal 
friend, unexpectedly entered, returning from their 
ride. 

There was no time to draw a gun ; Taylor grappled 
Owens, the biggest of the three, and threw him to the 
floor; while Wyrick, who was ably handling Hart, was 
struck from behind by Rathie upon whom he turned. 
The two men fell fighting to the floor. 

There, too, lay the sheriff's gun which had dropped 
from his holster in his hand-to-hand fight. With a 
bound Hart, now free, snatched it, and in response to 
Owens' call to shoot, raised the gun. The sheriff, re- 
leasing one hand from his grip on Owens', with re- 

46 



TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

markable quickness again grabbed the gun barrel in 
time to divert the shot. 

"Shoot him again," commanded Owens, as the two 
men locked in a struggle for life and death. 

Drawing the gun down to Taylor's heart he fired 
again, the bullet entering the sheriff's chest just below 
the throat. 

"Guy, I'm shot," gasped the fatally wounded man 
as he crumpled to the floor. 

With the muzzle of his gun and a threat to kill, Hart 
forced Wyrick to release Rathie, then again drawing 
on Taylor cursed them both and demanded the loca- 
tion of the ammunition, but received no response. 
Again he threatened to fire, when Wyrick shouted. 
"You wouldn't shoot a man when he's down, would 
you?" 

Taylor, realizing he was fatally wounded, in order 
to save Wyrick told the men where the cartridges were. 
The effort was a severe one for the dying sheriff, and 
he asked for water. After some debate, in which no 
little cursing figured, it was brought to him by one of 
the men, while Wyrick under the muzzle of a gun 
assisted him as much as possible, placing him on a bed 
in an adjoining room. Meanwhile the other two des- 
peradoes searched for a full supply of revolvers and 
ammunition. 

"What is the trouble?" asked R. E. Phelps, county 
road master, who, hearing the noise, ran up to the 
sheriff's office, accompanied by another man. 

"Just a little jail riot," answered Anderson, standing 
at the jail door, and whom Phelps did not realize was 
a prisoner. 

"Everything all right now?" queried Phelps. 

"All right," came back from the adjoining room, 

47 



LET 'ER BUCK 

"Let's go," shouted Owens. Patterson, leaving 
Marin, joined the others, now all armed with loaded 
revolvers, and the five lit out, heading for the railroad 
tracks. Here one of those strange coincidences we 
call fate, seemed to favor them — a freight train, an 
extra, which was promptly jumped was just leaving 
the city east-bound for the Blue Mountains. 

Wyrick, caring for the fatally wounded sheriff 
under cover of a gun until the five men fled, immediate- 
ly upon their departure telephoned for a doctor. Phelps, 
however, had been suspicious, but being unarmed, 
walked slowly away until out of sight, then speedily 
notified the chief of police, who gun in hand, rushed 
to the jail to find the birds flown. 

"Til's shot!" 

The word was passed by mouth and phone. It was 
a rude awakening which aroused the slumbering little 
city from its Sunday siesta. The quiet, empty, hot 
streets immediately became spotted with little grot^ps 
of people talking — at first in subdued tones. Then 
came the second word — "The jail's broke ! Til's mur- 
derers have made a getaway." 

Then the storm burst. People scurried to and fro, 
autos shot down street, up street, and across street. 
Telegraph wires were hot with messages to head off 
the prisoners or asking for information. Determined 
men mouths grim set and eyes steady, went quietly but 
quickly to their homes and loaded their rifles. Hard- 
ware stores were unlocked and their owners, with a 
wave of the hand towards the gun racks, told the man- 
hunters to help themselves. Deputies, headed by the 
released Marin, took charge and the entire surround- 
ing country was notified. 

Wild rumors and groundless clues of the flight were 

48 



TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

plentiful, but the first clue came from the brakemen 
bloodhounds on the west bound extra, No. 21136. 
They had seen five men drop off the freight at Mission, 
six miles east of Pendleton, and make for the brush 
near the river. Posses, hastily organized, struck out in 
every direction, but when it was known a clean get- 
away had been made, returned for definite orders and 
found that Sheriff Taylor was dead. As men came 
into the office of the late sheriff for orders, tears 
glistened in their eyes, but their eyelids did not quiver 
and their hearts were hard. 

Following the clue, armed to the teeth, they shot out 
in cars. One large posse thoroughly searched the 
wheatfields and brush about Mission. Lingren, the 
first to skip out and who had no hand in the fight had 
evidently boarded the same freight, and was shortly 
captured about twelve miles from Pendleton at Cayuse. 
In less than ten hours he was again behind the bars, 
but gave absolutely no information of the where- 
abouts of the other five fugitives. Evidence was ob- 
tained later, however, which proved that the posse was 
within ten yards of where they were. 

Bloodhounds from the state penitentiary at Walla 
Walla, fifty miles from Pendleton, were rushed to the 
scene ; all points on the railroads were carefully guard- 
ed, even mountain cabins were notified, and the hunt 
reorganized. Twilight found over one hundred men 
at Mission with the hounds in leash. They stalked the 
fugitives throughout the night, the largest posse, whip- 
ping one long canyon, saw daylight on Cabbage Hill 
in the foothills of the Blue Mountains eighteen miles 
away. 

Here they found that the meat house of a construc- 
tion camp had been robbed. Cheese, sausage and 

4 49 



LET 'ER BUCK 

dried codfish had been carried away. In a muddy spot 
at the spring nearby a tell-tale footprint was identified 
by one of the posse as corresponding to that of a shoe 
worn by Owens. Thus the first clue was obtained and 
bloodhounds were placed on the scent. 

The heavy brush in the deep canyons and the ex- 
treme dryness of the rocky hills greatly hampered the 
hounds. When the trail was hottest, a hurry call came 
from a town about thirty miles away to the west of 
Pendleton, requesting all available posse men to help 
close in on the fugitives who had been surrounded. 
There was no time to debate the matter, and much 
against the will of the officer in charge of the dogs, 
the whole party of man-hunters was streaking down 
mountain toward Pendleton. The report proved false 
and the chase was again up in the air. 

The courthouse in Pendleton now saw the hunters 
gathered in and new plans were systematically laid, 
maps of creeks, canyons, springs, cabins and every 
possible point where the desperadoes might go were 
made; stations were established at all points and tele- 
phones taken to many of them from which reports 
were phoned hourly. W. R. Taylor, "Jinks" Taylor 
to those who know him, brother of the murdered 
sheriff, a prominent rancher of the county, was ap- 
pointed by the court to fill the unexpired term of his 
brother, while posters announced a total reward of six 
thousand dollars for the capture of the fugitives, dead 
or alive. Invaluable assistance in the planning and or- 
ganizing was rendered by two additional Oregon ex- 
perts in this line of work — "Ace" (A. B.) Thompson 
of Echo and E. B. Wood of Portland. 

The search was now re-planned in a scientific man- 
ner. All traffic was stopped through the county ; busi- 

50 



TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

ness houses closed down and allowed their employees 
to join the posses; sheriffs, deputies, government de- 
tectives and railroad officials joined in the hunt; In- 
dians of the Umatilla Reservation joined the friends 
of the dead sheriff as they rode horseback over the 
hills, while on all possible trails scouts were placed. 

Not until after four days of exhaustive effort did 
any of the posses get within sight of the outlaws ; then 
two men were seen at a distance and shots exchanged. 
Reports of various robberies committed in the nearby 
cabins indicated that the fugitives were in the vicinity, 
and after three days of the hardest trailing, sometimes 
by tracking, sometimes with the aid of bloodhounds, 
over rocky hills and into deep canyons heavily masked 
with brush and almost impossible of penetration, a 
posse of Pendleton and LaGrande men under Sheriff 
Lee Warnack came to a deserted campfire. 

Reaching a telephone they notified a posse from La- 
Grande on the other side of the mountain to head the 
bandits off. In response the LaGrande posse, scouring 
the hills for isolated sheep camps, working on to the 
Daxe Johnson ranch, came upon the darkened tent 
house of a French sheepherder, who lay soundly sleep- 
ing on a rough couch in the dark and obscure interior. 

"Have you seen any strange men in this section?" 
they called loudly. 

The man roused himself. "Non, I have not," he re- 
plied, rubbing his sleepy eyes. 

Meantime, however, he pointed significantly toward 
a figure asleep on the floor to one side of the door of 
the tent. Again the Frenchman raised his swarthy 
arm, this time pointing to a sleeping man on the couch 
beside him. 

Carbines were quickly unlimbered. Flashlights lit 

51 



LET 'ER BUCK 

up the scene, and before they could awaken from their 
deep slumber, the two sleepers in no uncertain manner 
were roughly jerked to their feet. There stood Owens 
and Hart. 

"Search 'em," and as they went thoroughly and 
quickly through the captives a big gun slipped from 
Owens' holster and fell to the ground. With the quick- 
ness of a cat he reached for it, and as he stooped over 
to seize it he ran plumb against a rifle which one of 
the possemen jammed square in his face. 

"Move another inch and I'll shoot you dead in 
your tracks," he threatened. 

"To hell with you; shoot and be damned," mutter- 
ed Owens but shoved "hands up" as the gun came into 
play. 

Half-starved and exhausted from their flight over 
the mountains, cheeks sunken from loss of food and 
sleep, feet bruised and blistered from six days of cease- 
less hiking, the two were then with scant ceremony 
bound together hand and foot. 

Thus, after six days of trailing foot-prints and fol- 
lowing with bloodhounds over some of the roughest 
kind of country, the two most desperate of the quin- 
tette were caught like rats in a trap, in a lone sheep- 
herder's cabin six miles east of Toll Gate on the top 
of the Blue Mountains. The pair were taken to the 
Union County jail in LaGrande, again within the 
clutch of the law. 

Shortly after. Til's brother, "Jinks" Taylor, now 
acting as sheriff, arrived in LaGrande and gave Sheriff 
Lee Warnack a receipt for the "live bodies" of Owens 
and Hart, who were immediately bundled into the ton- 
neau of a high-power machine and the car made for 
Pendleton. 

52 



TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

The day proved to be a complete round-up of the 
entire five, who on the third day of their flight had spHt 
up. Rathie had been going it alone, and had eaten only 
six times in six days under the terrific strain of being 
hunted. He had thrown away his revolver, and made 
no resistance when captured in the mountains twenty 
miles from Pendleton at Gibbon, where he had ap- 
peared at a cabin demanding food. It was over this 
same country and at the very point at Gibbon on the 
mountains, that the late sheriff, after a chase of many 
days, had run down and captured the bandits who blew 
a safe in Helix. At Toll Gate, Rathie's attempt to 
pass over the mountain had been foiled by guards, and 
the moves he made show that the posses were close 
on him all the time. Though Rathie was captured 
after Owens and Hart, he was the first to be brought 
to Pendleton, few knowing until evening that he had 
been smuggled into the jail. 

The last to be run down were Patterson and Ander- 
son. They, too, when captured by sheepherders, were 
suffering from hunger, having eaten nothing but green 
oats picked from the grain fields since the previous 
Sunday. In fact, so great was their fear of being 
lynched that breaking down and crying, they pleaded 
not to be placed in the same jail with Owens and 
Hart. 

News of the capture of Owens and Hart spread like 
wildfire. Extras were issued and the courthouse lawn 
was black with men waiting the return of the captives 
to Pendleton. They were, however, rushed into the 
county jail by a side entrance before the angry mob 
could take action. The crowds outside, increasing 
every moment, were so threatening when later Patter- 
son and Anderson arrived, that the sheriff placed the 

53 



THE SHERIFF 

Many were the romantic characters in that cast of unapplauded 
pioneers and adventurers who cuhninated the last act of their 
Odyessy in the great original epic scene of their drama "The 
Winning of the West." Their stage was the prairie; the wings — 
the rivers; the foothills and mountains, the scenery; the drapes 
— the sun, sky and stars; the red-flickering campfires their foot- 
lights. 

But of that cast none played a more prominent part, none 
could be less spared than the sheriff. The old time sheriff with 
his deputies, not only symbolized the law, but generally was the 
law — the only legal protection the law abiding had against the 
lawless. He was often the court, police department, judge, jury, 
jailer and executioner all rolled into one. It was a dangerous 
roll compared to that of the average sheriff of today. 

In some instances, as at Virginia City, Montana, in the heyday 
of the gold rush, the bad element predominated and elected one 
of their own ilk as sheriff, as was the case of Plummer whom 
Langford mentions in "Vigilante Days and Ways." My friend 
Pat Sheehan, who was a "nestler" in the Gallatin Valley and 
whose yellow fishing rod I once spied among the quaking asps 
along the Taylor on my way back from a "drive" can bear testi- 
mony to that. 

I dismounted and clumped along beside him leading old Glass 
Eye. As we walked toward his cabin where he had staked out a 
claim, he told me he had struck it rich in the Vigilante Days and 
late one afternoon set out toward Virginia City but was waylaid 
by two stickup men not far from the town. But he sent one of 
the pair on by the "short cut," the other took one of his own, 
so Pat kept his gold. Naturally he told his story to the next man 
he met just out from the town as he chanced to be the sheriff. 

"Well !" said Pat, "Fartunately a frind o' mine happened along 
and after he'd poured o' drink of wather on me face and a drink 
o' red eye down me mouth I came around alright." 
"What happened," I queried. 

"Give me yer hand." Shifting his rod he seized my free hand 
and shoved it into his grizzly white hair hard against his skull. 
My thumb sunk half way into a deep depression made by the 
blow of a pistol butt. 
"Do yer fale that?" 
"Sure," said I, "how did that happen." 
"Ploomer did it." 

Even in these early days we see political power germinating 
in the hands of the gangster and the gang, justice aborted and its 
sacred dispensation held in the hands of the grafter and his 
henchmen. 

It was such conditions which led the better element to organize 
their vigilantes or citizens protective committees during those 
formative days and which brought the office of sheriff as one of 
the most honored a community could bestow and its duties among 
the most dangerous and arduous. 

The demand for the work of the old-time western sheriff has 
almost disappeared, likewise that noble, picturesque, courageous 
type of citizen of whom Til Taylor, Sheriff of Umatilla County, 
was an outstanding example. 




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Pi c 



THE EPIC DRAMA OF THE WEST ON PARADE 

On Saturday morning the last day of the carnival, the Round- 
Up marshals its page and pageantry into a great panorama of 
the Westward Ho parade — the Old West on the move. Pendle- 
ton is filled to the brim with holiday humanity. Here, indeed, you 
see the efiicient, courteous character of its community for a com- 
munity's real nature is usually worn on its holiday sleeve — and 
you agree that Pendleton's faultless carnival jacket needs no 
mending. 

Preceded by the mounted cowboy band, the Governor of Ore- 
gon heads the march, followed by the clean-cut western types 
of the Round-Up president and committee. You now look into 
the kaleidoscope of time; revolve it and its color particles on 
your field of vision evolve into rainbow shirted, kerchiefed cow- 
boys, hundreds of them four abreast, range types you'll never 
forget. As they ride by, stir in you a forgotten, primitive, 
natural something, an atavistic element you didn't know existed. 
Again they evolve into cowgirls, scouts, old-timers, miners, mules, 
oxcarts, prairie schooners, stagecoaches pack trains which shape 
up and then disintegrate by. Now they dissolve into form— the 
hunter scene which float by — and the pioneer, the Indian, the 
camp fire, and all the principle epic episodes of the old life of 
the hunt and range. And lastly into a magnificent, galaxied 
mass of color which falls transforming into the mobile shapes 
of Indians. You catch your breath, is this riot of color Indians 
or an interweaving of broken up rainbows as the glorious 
chaliced spectrum of the Indian section passes in its shifting 
variety, — a seemingly endless human chromoscope — you agree it 
is the most gorgeous mass and merge of color you have ever 
conceived. 

So it passes, this picturesque, romantic, adventurous Old West 
in its last review, passes between the solid banked phalanxes of 
neutral clad spectators, along these less inspiring gray lanes of 
modernity, passes under the triumphal arches of color, buntuig, 
banners, and flags which gracefully back and fill in the soft litt 
of air which breathes down Main Street. The most conspicuous 
banners, next to those of America are those of the Round-Up 
bearing its emblematic symbol, a rider on a bucking horse and 
the Round-Up slogan— "Let 'er Buck." 

The parade of Westward Ho, did they say, soft pattering 
down the pavements of Main Street? It is Westward Ho, re- 
echoing down the corridors of time. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

prisoners first in the city lock-up, afterwards smug- 
gling them into the county jail. 

That five desperadoes could be captured at different 
points in the same day without the firing of a single 
shot, seemed unbelievable to the citizens of a region 
where, throughout its pioneer history, the revolver had 
been, and in some parts still is, regarded as a man's 
best friend. When, however, the realization was 
borne in upon them, that only a meager wall screened 
from them the men responsible for the killing of Til 
Taylor, the crowd about the courthouse was augment- 
ed. As the evening wore on, the tense atmosphere in- 
dicated that a break was inevitable. 

Milling about the courthouse, a salient of the black 
mass finally surged inside and packed the hall about 
the office where the life of their well-beloved friend 
and sheriff, less than a scant week before, had been 
snuffed out. Here was no doubt of the guilty and 
their accomplices. Men's hearts burned within them 
and their souls surged with intense resentment. Law, 
justice, yes, and that inherent man-thirst, revenge, 
seemed to them best served by summary punishment. 
Outside there was an ominous murmur from the con- 
stantly swelling ranks of determined men. 

Then above them in the open door of the courthouse 
appeared a figure with bared head and in shirt sleeves. 
It was the newly appointed sheriff. Beside him stood 
a guard with carbine in hand. 

"Boys, if Til were alive," the gleam of the street- 
lamps reflected in the moist glisten in his eyes, "he 
would want you to let the law take its course. You 
who are friends of Til, I ask you to do as he would 
wish if he were alive. Rest assured justice will be 
done." 

56 



TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF 

For a moment there was silence ; then from here and 
there words of approval came from the compact 
group. Calmer citizens supplemented the sheriff's 
appeal. 

Little Pendleton upheld its record for intelligent ac- 
tion, common sense and upholding of the law. Slowly, 
haltingly, still in a state of partial indecision, the crowd 
turned its back on the jail and trailed to their homes. 
As the sheriff had promised, law took its course and 
justice was done. 

Til Taylor had those characteristics which engender 
respect and endear a man to those with whom he came 
in contact. Generosity was as much an inherent part 
of his character as courage, and any man, regardless 
of his crime, could go to him and get money — some- 
times in gifts and sometimes in loans. Of the many 
he had trusted, his murderers were the only men who 
went back on him. Many men whom he had arrested 
thanked him in later years and credited him with 
turning them from criminal paths to lives of useful 
citizens. Criminals knew they were going to be caught 
when he took their trail; yet when he occasionally 
visited the state penitentiary prisoners he had placed 
there would ask permission of the warden to "talk with 
Til." Perhaps the most remarkable tribute to his rec- 
ord as sheriff was not alone the fact that he never lost 
a man but that he never killed a man. But, in the end, 
it was the man whose life his mercy had twice spared 
who shot him. 

There was a touch of pathos in the act of an old, 
but reformed culprit, who came into the office of the 
secretary of the Round-Up, the headquarters of the 
Taylor Memorial Fund, with a tear glint in his eye, 
and deposited his humble contribution with the remark • 

57 



LET 'ER BUCK 

"Til did me the best turn a friend ever did — he set 
me straight." 

Perhaps this humble act of an old enemy of the law 
not only best symbolizes the love and esteem in which 
Sheriff Til Taylor was held by all who knew him, but 
magnifies the indelible record he left as a sheriff, when 
in the line of duty he rode over the Great Divide. 



58 



CHAPTER THREE 
CORRAL DUST, 

"Goin' to the tryouts?" 

I replied by swinging my horse into the Httle group 
of riders on their way to the Round-Up grounds. On 
my off side rode Buffalo Vernon, one of the contest- 
ants in the first Round-Ups and who set the pace in the 
roping and steer bulldogging. Besides Vernon was 
Art Acord, another first class bulldogger and one of 
the best all-round buckaroos ; on my nigh side was Jane 
Bernoudy, the attractive California girl and one of 
the greatest of fancy ropers. Next to Jane was the 
marvelous relay rider, Jason Stanley, and on the out- 
side long and lanky "Skeeter" Bill Robbins. 

We jogged along to the soft clink of spur, champ of 
bit, the jingle of rein chains and softer retch of leather 
trappings, music to the ear of range folk. This 
level road, elm shaded, from between whose insterstices 
pretty cottage homes peep out, along which we ride to 
the soft putter of our horses' hoofs, was first a trail, 
hard-padded by centuries of passings of the mocca- 
sined feet of the Amerinds; then, after the acquisi- 
tion of ponies, it widened into a series of parallel 
paths, perhaps eight or ten, a little more than a rider's 
distance apart. Then the prairie schooner, the stage 
coach and the freighter rutted it and the scout, cowboy 
and pony express rider packed it harder. 

59 



LET 'ER BUCK 

This road that leads past the Round-Up grounds, 
was a part of The Great Trail of the Indians of these 
latitudes; the great Amerindian highway — the first 
recorded highway to cross the divide which separates 
the Eastern and Western oceans, over which traveled 
Pawnee and Black foot, Bannock and Shoshone. In- 
stinctively the white pioneer followed these primal 
trails which searched the best passes, the smoothest 
ground and easiest fords. 

Thus this, The Great Trail of the Amerind, became 
the ox-team road of the emigrant, the stage and the 
freight route of the pioneer, the modern highway of 
present travel. The Old Emigrant Road through Ore- 
gon, known later as The Oregon Trail, reached the Co- 
lumbia River at The Dalles, but some contend that it 
actually terminated at Oregon City where the emigrants 
"called the journey over and separated to find homes." 
The main ford, hereabouts, was like the stage station 
and first settlement, about two miles below Pendleton 
at a place called Marshall, and the road we now turned 
off from into the arena, is the old Oregon Trail. So 
history rides into the very gates of The Round-Up. 

To one to whom the smell of sagebrush, the feel of 
the stirrup and the whole gamut of the life of range 
and cow-camp are endeared through associations, the 
morning "tryouts," which occur on the days just pre- 
ceding the great show, and the elimination contests on 
the second morning of it, make an inherent appeal. The 
elimination contests are just what the name implies — 
contests to eliminate the many newcomers who cannot 
class with the greatest riders of the world, or as "Buff" 
Vernon would express it, "ter cut out the mavericks 
and strays." At the tryouts old friends from British 
Columbia to the Mexican border meet again. There 

60 



CORRAL DUST 

is a comfortable naturalness in the way they lounge 
about the arena or watch with keen interest as they 
see the chances on their "stakes" rise or fall as un- 
known riders or new buckers battle for supremacy. 

There, a bit in the shadow, some of the most ex- 
pert fancy ropers living — Chester Byers, Cuba Crutch- 
field, Bee Ho Gray, Sammy Garrett, Jane Bernoudy, 
Tex McLeod and Bertha Blancett — play with their 
ropes as though those serpentine coils are living things. 

Lassoing, rope throwing or just "ropin' " has its 
many styles, such as horse roping, steer roping, calf 
roping, done on the open range from horseback or in 
corrals, from the saddle or on foot, each an art in it- 
self. It by no means follows that a good steer roper 
is a good calf roper, and few good straight ropers do 
fancy roping. Trick and fancy rope work, according 
to Will Rogers, one of the best in the game, was 
first brought into the United States about twenty- 
seven years ago by Vincenti Orespo, a Mexican. 

Rogers says that Orespo was the first fancy roper 
that any of the present day fancy ropers ever saw. No 
other man had such accuracy and style as he did. 
Though he had a less extensive routine of tricks his 
catches were long and clean and what was particularly 
to his credit was his standing as a great roper. In 
catching horses he was a wonder, always throwing a 
small loop and catching them right around the throat 
latch, not by the middle, a hind leg or the saddle horn. 

Fancy roping, such as spinning and making tricky 
catches, may have originated through the play in tak- 
ing the tangle out of ropes. Unlike straight roping, 
fancy is advancing all the time, while due straight rop- 
ing like the range and the cowboy is dying out. It was 
a wonderful aggregation that each day opened the 

61 



LET 'ER BUCK 

performance in front of the grandstand or "worked 
their hands in" at the tryouts. Watch Sam Garrett, 
resplendent in purple shirt, make his rope hum and 
twist as if charged with an electric current. 

Swish! Tex McLeod has roped four horses and 
riders in a single noose. Zip ! and Chester Byers, so 
easy and slow of action in his fancy roping, has while 
nonchalantly standing on his head suddenly thrown his 
noose and roped a passing horse by its fore feet. Pick 
whichever part of a horse you wish captured and 
they'll rope it, whether it be by the neck, any or all 
feet, or even with a flip, after the horse goes by, by the 
tail itself. They all make their ropes take every con- 
ceivable gyration, from the wedding ring or simple 
circle to the ring spinning vertically through which 
they skip. Standing, jumping, sitting, and even lying 
down makes no difference as they spin circles with 
eyes open or blindfolded. Then Jane Bernoudy places 
her jacket on the ground and now dons and removes it 
to the ceaseless spinning of her magic tord. 

How simple! Try it! Any of them will be only too 
glad to show you. Snarled first try. "J^st a bit of a 
knack," Cuba Crutchfield will encouragingly tell you. 
He thinks nothing of jumping backwards and for- 
wards in his vertically spinning loop or even inciden- 
tally turning somersaults through it. Yes, a knack 
that takes years of experimenting and an inborn "feel" 
for a rope to accomplish. 

The "bunch" has already rounded up in the arena, 
by the grandstand — every type — but all branded with 
the hall mark of the range. Yes, the great days of 
the cowboy have passed and he is now riding against 
the sunset of his time. His trails and camping grounds 
have blazed his path through Texas, New Mexico, 

62 



CORRAL DUST 

much of Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, Western Kan- 
sas, Nebraska, Montana, throughout the so-called "arid 
lands" and "bad lands," also up through Dakota to the 
Canadian Northwest territories of his range, reaching 
at one time or another from the alkali dust-coated 
plains of Mexico to the cool verdant mountain forests 
of Peace River. 

Perhaps the strikingness of his sombrero and chap- 
perajos, and the jingle of his spurs have so struck the 
imagination that they have blinded it to his qualities 
and services. His is a highly skilled profession; if you 
doubt it, try it. An early initiation, a long appren- 
ticeship and years of training are required, both with 
rope and horse, and that is only the manual part of his 
work. To know the signs of the trail, the ways of 
cattle, of horse and men almost a law unto themselves, 
and all the innumerable arts of their calling is not 
learned in a night or by looking at printer's ink on a 
piece of white paper. 

If one considers the kind of fighting, unbroken or 
half broken refractory horses, the cowboys had to ride 
in a country rough with rocks, or what was worse, 
badger and prairie-dog holes, yet withal maintaining 
a supreme and perfect control of their mounts which 
must be handled with a manner and style peculiarly 
effective for their purposes, they must be classed as 
among the best horsemen of the world. Those of the 
clan you now see about the arena, walking or lounging 
with an easy grace, are the very pick of these knights 
of the quirt and the stock saddle — the last of their 
clan — a modest-talking, quiet-moving, humor-loving, 
he-man bunch — yes, and a few women thrown in too. 

That cowboy packing his saddle across the turf is 
"Hughey" Strickland, game, quiet, a thorough sports- 

63 



LET 'ER BUCK 

man, a great rider and one of the best all-round cow- 
boys that was ever in the arena. In this class is Eddie 
McCarty of Cheyenne, as well as A. E. McCormack, 
and Tex Smith, both also world's champions in the 
bucking game. Following on their heels were Dell 
Blancett, Johnny Judd and others. 

None is more typical than Johnny Spain. He's that 
strapping buckaroo there with silver cuffs to his leather 
chapps and heavy silver-studded trimmings and fringe 
on his pocket covers. His right arm is gone below the 
wrist — "burnt off" — got caught in a hitch in his rope 
— with the horse on one end and a steer on the other 
pulling different ways. But John's there, with a happy 
smile and his ever genial "that's right" reply — no mat- 
ter if you tell him it's a pleasant day when it's raining. 
John goes in for everything and is always right on top, 
even as "lasher" on the hurricane deck of a rolling 
stagecoach — and only one hand to work with, too. 

Just beside John is Frank. Carter, from Wyoming. 
While he has never won a championship here or even 
a place in the finals, he is a splendid rider and a classy 
one, but he was used to riding with two reins and ap- 
parently lacked sfrength when it came to riding here 
with one. In fact, any man who rides into the main 
lists must be a real rider, for all the good ones are 
eliminated and Only the best ride. There is also Ray 
Bell, one of the best of the younger all-round men, 
good at each of the three major sports — riding, rop- 
ing and bulldogging — and who won all three at Boise, 
Idaho. 

"Hootcha-la! I'k out!" and Charlie Irwin neatly 
drops his rope about the neck of Fred Spain, John's 
brother. Fred, who is one of the best all-round buck- 
aroos, slips off the noose with a laugh. Yes, of course 

64 



CORRAL DUST 

you know Irwin, he's the biggest man in the arena — as 
big in heart and good nature as he is in body and full 
of high life — a natural born organizer and leader and 
probably the greatest maker of buckaroo champions. 
He won't have a cowhand on his ranch in Idaho who 
isn't a top notcher. 

Irwin is now general and live stock agent for the 
Union Pacific, and one of the greatest characters in 
the West today. From his ranch he and his brother 
put out on the road the Irwin Brothers Wild West 
Show with cowboys from their own outfit. He was 
one of the prime movers of Frontier Days at Chey- 
enne and knows the game from every angle. He's 
here with his string of relay racers. 

The whole Irwin family, both the boys and girls 
are experts, who usually capture many of the prizes at 
Tiajuana, Mexico. Young Floyd Irwin, Charlie's son, 
who rode into the Great Beyond on the track at Chey- 
enne in 1916 while roping, could do anything in the 
buckaroo game and was in a class by himself. Even 
the 'boys' say he was the best all-round buckaroo that 
ever hit a saddle. 

In the crowd of riders looking over the saddles 
treed on the arena fence, are some of the stars of the 
rope and saddle. That good looking, short but well-pro- 
portioned chap with "Le C." on the light field of his 
black-bordered, silver-studded chapps is Caldwell, con- 
ceded by the buckaroos themselves to be the peer of 
champion rough riders. In the course of one morn- 
ing after Lee had made a ride, he was hung up in his 
stirrup and dragged part way across the arena and 
through the fence, the horse meantime kicking at all 
creation when the defenceless man put out an arm for 
a post. The speed and force tore the ligament fright- 

5 65 



LET 'ER BUCK 

fully but also tore the rider loose where he lay uncon- 
scious on the track. 

It was here I made my first personal acquaintance 
with Caldwell when old Winnamucca Jack, the In- 
dian wrangler and I helped pick him up and then 
helped hold him in Fay LeGrow's flivver. He insisted 
upon returning to ride, but we rushed him to the doc- 
tor instead. He carried his arm in a sling and cast 
the remainder of that Round-Up. Fay LeGrow's fliv- 
ver Lee was rushed to the doctor in sprung a leak so 
we came back in his yellow-brown touring car. 

"Ugh!" gutturaled old Winnamucca, "buckskin 
hi-yu-skookum — bobtail no go!" 

Amongst this arena group, are other of America's 
greatest buckaroo rough-rider champions — Yakima 
Cannutt, who won two world's bucking championships 
at the Round-Up and rode in second and third in two 
other years. There's "Hippy" Burmeister and Rufus 
Rollen, who both have ridden in for second world 
championships, and picturesque Jackson Sundown, the 
Nez Perce Indian who won a first ; then there is Dave 
White who rode in third in Nineteen Seventeen, 
standing with his arm over Arizona, who pulled in 
second the following year. That fine type of hard- 
boiled cowman at the end is Red Parker, of Valentine, 
Nebraska, that auburn-haired boy who, though he has 
never ridden into the finish here, is a real rider. Those 
two lolling out there in the sun are Jesse Stahl who 
holds the bulldogging record, and George Fletcher, — 
both ride well. 

One of the old "cowhands" best known to Pendle- 
ton is missing this year, detained somewhere in Idaho, 
they say, — started to run a "butcher shop" and got his 

cattle "mixed." 

66 



CORRAL DUST 

"Corralling a bunch of yearling mavericks?" grinned 
buckaroo Roy Hunter, a cavalryman from Vancouver 
Barracks, to Walter Bowman, the photographer, who 
had rounded up a laughing group of pretty cowgirls, 

"Yes, but they are more than you can brand, Roy", 
chirped back Hazel Walker of riding fame. With her 
were those four marvelous riders of outlaws. Bertha 
Blancett, Fannie Sperry Steele, Nettie Hawn, and Tilly 
Baldwin, an unequalled quartette that had the unique 
record among the women riders of "riding slick" — 
that is without hobbled stirrups. There was also 
"Prairie Rose" Henderson, auburn-haired Minnie 
Thompson, Eloise Hastings and "Babe" Lee. 

The well-proportioned, golden-haired cowgirl is that 
queen of ropers, Lucile Mulhall of Oklahoma — the 
only woman to successfully get a steer down on time, 
and the only woman who has bulldogged a steer at 
the Round-Up. She is a marvel at all three major 
sports. She and Bertha Blancett have no superiors 
as all-round cowgirls. 

There, too, is Vera McGinnis, in the brown fringed 
skirt, one of the greatest of all-round contestants, and 
pretty Ella Lazinka who is a good all-round cowgirl. 
But the palm, as an all-round cowwoman, must be 
given to Bertha Blancett, probably the most daring, 
gamest and as sportsmanslike a woman as ever rode 
at a Round-Up, and as efficient as many a cowboy on 
the range. 

Out on the track, champion riders are exercising 
their relay strings in turns, and are themselves getting 
used to the one quarter mile track. There are Lorena 
Trickey, Mable DeLong Strickland, Tilly Baldwin and 
Ruth Parton, who owns and rides her own string. 
They are training the horses to the track and the 

67 



A SHOOTING STAR 

And Others Go 

SAILING HIGH 

They indeed catch 'em young, treat 'em rough — but — they tell 
'em everything at Pendleton, at least they give them every oppor- 
tunity to find out for themselves. I refer to the aspirants in the 
buckaroo game. Hot Foot on the right, is again up to his old 
tricks and keeping this young buckaroo guessing whether he's 
about to be a-foot or a-horseback, but he's staying with him well. 

I remember seeing Morris Temple, a wee laddie of barely five 
years, knocking about Main Street alone on a big dobbin', and a 
few Round-Ups ago I watched that young buckaroo Darrell 
Cannon, an embryo new "star" on the Round-Up firmament, 
make his first appearance in the arena heavens at thirteen years 
of age. 

Not only the game, but the prizes are enough to inspire any red- 
blooded boy or man of the range country, to aspire to win them. 
When he thinks he is all set and rarin' ter go, he can show up at 
the Round-Up, sign up, get his number, and draw his boss, and 
if he can — go get 'em. What can he get? Well, if he can ride 
into the world's bucking championship, he rides home a $500 sad- 
dle, made and presented by a Pendleton harness and saddlery 
store, the biggest and most complete in the Northwest, and $450 
in cash ; the second place buckaroo totes home a magnificent 
Stetson hat presented by a leading department store and tucks 
$200 into his wallet; the third man in the grand finals buckles 
round his waist, a beautiful sterling silver belt presented by a 
leading jeweler, and jams $100 into the pocket of his chaps — some 
of the rest of "the bunch" collect what their luck in riding or 
judgment in horseflesh has won. But all have ridden into three 
days of the old life, if not into the prizes, and get set for another 
year. 

Each outlaw bucker has his way of bucking and many have 
many ways. Some "cake-walk" like Hot Foot, others "straight 
buck," "weave," "double o," "cork screw," "circle," "pivot," 
"side-throw," "fall back," or "side wind" to rid themselves of the 
clinging man thing. 

Then again they initiate their riders into their "sky scrape," 
"sunfish" and "high dive" as Speedball is doing while "Sailing 
high" with Corporal Roy Hunter, 21st United States Infantry, 
formerly of Vancouver Barracks. Both of these buckaroos are 
riding well, for they are riding "slick," that is, riding close seats, 
fanning, avoiding all artificial means of support and riding in 
good form and have scratched their mounts at every jump. The 
most complete example of this, however, caught in the camera, 
is the remarkable photograph on the cover, of Bill Mahaffey on 
Iz which, when he said "Let 'er Buck," he said a mouthful. 




43 




cc 



SPINNING THE WEDDING RING 

No more subtle art is required, or delicacy of skill exemplified, 
than in the captivating exhibitions of trick and fancy roping. 
No fancy roper ever won greater applause or popularity, not 
only through her supreme grace and variety of fancy roping but 
through her character and attractive personality, than Jane 
Bernoudy (now Mrs. Reed) the pretty Calif ornian from Santa 
Monica. Whether on foot or on horseback, Jane was equally at 
home in the control and directing of that elusive thing the "lass 
rope." These qualities are no better shown than in the ease, beauty 
and perfect manipulation of her rope when "spinning the wed- 
ding ring." 

Cowboys, even those who are top-notch steer ropers rarely 
attempt fancy and trick roping. It is an art in itself and bears 
no direct use to the work of the range. It is but a recent ad- 
junct to the varied forms of roping and probably originated in 
the play of taking the snarls out of the rope. 

There are several other fancy and trick ropers who stand as 
top-notchers. Among the women known to the Pendleton arena 
are Tillie Baldwin, Lucille Mulhall, and Bertha Blancett. While 
among the men are Cuba Crutchfield, Chester Byers, Bee Ho 
Gray, Sam Garrett, Leonard Stroud and Tex McLeod. The 
standing of a fancy and trick roper is judged by the greatest 
variety of tricks both in spinning and catching on foot or a 
"horseback" coupled with the ease, grace and general skill 
displayed. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

fchanges. Watching them are two other cowgirl 
riders, Donna Card and Vera Maginnis. 

Bertha Blancett, the veteran at the relay game, has 
entered six different years for this contest, winning 
two first world's championships, in two seconds and 
two-thirds. Ruth Parton has ridden away with two 
championships and Mabel DeLong Strickland with 
three, holding the second Round-Up record of 
11.55 1-5 seconds, riding four horses two miles each 
day for three days and changing horses and saddles. 
Lorena Trickey holds the top-notch record in 11.40 4-5 
seconds, also the best time — 3.52 — for one day's rac- 
ing. Katie Cannutt won in 1918 and holds third record, 
while Donna Card's close second place for four consec- 
utive years will be remembered in this event as well as 
Ella Lazinka's game racing and that of Fanny Steele, 
Vera Maginnis, Ollie Osborn, Miss Oughy and Jose- 
phine Sherry. In these women is represented a resource- 
ful self-reliance, yet they are intensely feminine withal. 

"Shake hands with Allen Drumheller, down from 
Walla Walla." He's the peer of relay riders and an 
all-round sportsman, and holds the Round-Up record 
in the pony express race. He rides for the pure love 
of the game. He is the son of George Drumheller, one 
of the biggest wheat and cattle farmers in the North- 
west, and not only owns a wonderful racing and relay 
string of horses but rides them as well — so does his 
sister Jessie. 

Come over here, and let me introduce you to some 
other relay and pony express riders. 

"This is Scoop Martin," — ^he holds the relay record 
for 12 minutes 7 seconds. 

"This is Darrel Cannon," — he first rode buckers at 
the Round-Up when only fourteen and now is one of 

70 



CORRAL DUST 

the best relay riders here — in fact, he pulls down 
second place in the record column for 12 minutes 
21 1-5 seconds. 

"I want you to know Knapp Lynch," — he follows 
with third time, 

"Meet Lloyd Saunders," — his time on the pony ex- 
press is only two seconds behind Drumheller's and is 
only 2 2.5 seconds better than Floyd Irwin's of 6 min- 
utes 22 3.5 seconds, made three years before in 1916. 
But you'll learn more about these records when you see 
the races in the Round-Up itself. 

"You've met Fred Spain, 'Sleepy' Armstrong, 
Chester Parsons, Roy Kelly who rides Fay LeGrow's 
famous string, A. Neylon who won in 1918, Bob 
Liehe, Braden Gerking, Wade, Abbot, Zedicar and all 
that bunch." 

As you know, most of them ride pony express as 
well as relay, but in this historic race, besides Drum- 
heller, Saunders, Irwin, Spain, Lynch and Gerking, 
you will get such names as Jason Stanley, who first 
won in 1912, and Hoot Gibson who rode in for second 
honors, Harry Walters who pulled in first in '18, and 
Kenneth Kennedy who took the premier prize in 1920, 
Jack Joyce is one of the old timers at the Round-Up 
and is good at the other sports; also there's Johnny 
Baldwin and Tommy Grimes. 

It is but natural that men entering races requiring 
such horsemanship as the relay and pony express, 
should enter the list in the standing race, so you see 
Hoot Gibson, one of the cracker-jacks in this race, 
who took second in 1912 and first in 1913 against 
three of the greatest riders in this line, Sid Searle, first 
both in 1913 and 1915, Otto Kline, champion in 1914, 
and Ben Corbett. 

71 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Corbett, short, well built and gritty, is the top- 
notcher in the standing race, having the distinction of 
riding six consecutive years at the Round-Up in this 
contest in which he won two third prizes, three second 
places and pulled off one first world's championship in 
which he set a new record in 1916 by beating out 
Hoot Gibson's 1913 record by only one-fifth of a 
second. 

Other names rank high in this eight-footed tandem 
race. Cannon, Kennedy and Walters have all made 
championship rides, also Jimmy Taylor in 1920, 
Saunders, Joyce, Zedicar, Leihe and Homer Wilson 
go in for this, and a new rider Walter Sterling. 

Among these race entrants are six of the greatest 
trick and fancy riders of the world. Take that clean- 
limbed, fair-haired chap, as modest and likable as he 
is good looking, — that's Otto Kline, star performer. 
Then there are the two Scale brothers, Sid and Walter, 
also Leonard Stroud and Johnny Baldwin. Just wait 
till you see them. You will be interested in that buck- 
skin horse, it's Tillie Baldwin's pet. The one with 
those unnaturally long, curved up eyelashes which 
fringe out like a pair of old paint brushes. Some of 
the boys believe these bristles should be clipped, one 
remarking "Tillie you ought 'er roach his blinkers." 

"No sirree, Sampson had his hair cut and you know 
what it did to him," came back Tillie with a twinkle in 
her eyes. 

Just before you reach the entrance of the grounds, 
you recall we passed a line of old time stagecoaches 
drawn up outside the gates. What a story some of 
them could tell — so, too, could some of the drivers who 
have raced them in the arena. Joe Cantrell, a remark- 
able driver, holds the record on championship drives 

72 



CORRAL DUST 

having won three different years. H. W. Smith there, 
is another old-timer at this game, and has driven here 
off and on from 1912 to 1920 and always drives a hard 
race. E. O. Zeek, Johnny Spain, Clarence Plant, Jim 
McDonald and Bill Hogg can all claim championship 
drives, while Fred Spain, Guy Hoyes, Frank Roach 
are all on record for second places, not forgetting the 
two Indians, Gilbert Minthorn and Otis Half Moon. 

Most of the buckaroos who go in for steer bulldog- 
ging are agile but powerful men, for it takes weight 
to throw a big-necked steer by the horns. 

"Meet Ray McCarroll and Yakima Canutt." 

They are both considerably over six feet, but Canutt 
is one of the most powerful buckaroos in the arena. 
McCarroll won the championship in 1918, throwing 
two steers in 1.26 3-5 seconds, and throwing one in 
29 1-2 seconds. Canutt won in 1920, downing two 
steers in 60 1-5 seconds, his best throw being 28 1-5 
seconds. Canutt has the unique distinction of having 
taken the Police Gazette belt for the all-round cow- 
boy championship three times in 1917, '19 and '20, 
it being taken in 1918 by "Hughey" Strickland, 
in 1915 by Lee Caldwell and in 1914 by Sam 
Garrett. 

Garrett won the steer bulldogging championship in 
1914 and holds the third record. Dell Blancett who 
twice won second place holds the sixth best time ever 
made here, while Jim Massey holds fifth, winning the 
championship in 1919, and Siedel who was second in 
1920 and whom Canutt beat out on the time of two 
steers by only a second and two-fifths, is the holder of 
the fourth best time made, Paul Hastings in his win 
in 1917 also holds second honors as to the grand time 
record, while Jesse Stahl's record of 18 1-5 seconds 

73 



LET 'ER BUCK 

stands as the official one, although there is an unofficial 
record in 12 1-2. 

Some of the other husky, nervy boys at that game 
are not in the arena just now, — some are up town, a 
few have not shown up at Pendleton yet this year — 
among them are Art Acord and Walley Pagett, the 
champions of 1912 and '13, Lou Minor, Frank Cable, 
world's champ in 1915, and Frank McCarroll in 'LS, 
Bill Nevin, Fred Spain, Henry Warren, Jim Lynch. 
Oh yes, there's Mike Hastings and Orvil Banks — 
they are just ridng through the gate now, they each 
won third in 1919 and '20 respectively. 

And we mustn't forget "Buffalo" Vernon. Vernon 
hasn't showed up for some years now, but in the first 
two shows, particularly 1910, "Buff" was it, — he was 
half the show. He was one of the very first at the bull- 
dogging game, won the first championship and showed 
a lot of the aftercomers the way. In his ornate chapps, 
yellow shirt and big well-seasoned sombrero which he 
wore in a way to the manner born, he will always be 
remembered as one of the most spectacular performers 
in the early shows. 

The last night of the 1910 Round-Up will also be 
remembered when enthusiasm for Vernon ran so high 
at the dance that "Buff" went home minus the famous 
yellow topside clothing, for the dance wound up with 
a maverick race by all hands, girls included, for pieces 
of Vernon's shirt as souvenirs — such was the way 
popularity was roped at the Round-Up that year. 

Steer roping being one of the three major sports one 
naturally expects to find contestants listed not only 
from the fancy and trick roping contingent but from 
that of the two other major sports, for roping is one 
of the events for the all-round championship prize. 

74 



CORRAL DUST 

The star ropers are particularly well-proportioned, 
clean-limbed men — take, for instance, that wonderful 
trio there, the George and Charlie Weir, and Eddie 
McCarty. McCarty is well known at Cheyenne as 
one of its prime movers and organizers. He won the 
world's steer roping championship here in 1913, also 
in 1918, and has always been in the finish, his best time 
for a single steer being 26 2-5 seconds, made with a 
total of 55 4-5 seconds for his two steers in 1919 when 
Fred Beeson, a marvel at roping, beat him out in 47 
seconds, Beeson's best time for a steer was 20 seconds 
flat that year, which stands as the top record here. 

George and Charlie Weir are experts par excellence 
in the steer roping game, George probably being slight- 
ly the better of the two, although in 1917 Charlie beat 
his brother out for first place, each roping two steers 
in the remarkably fast time of 1 minute 7 2-5 seconds 
and 1 minute 26 2-5 seconds respectively, Charlie's best 
single throw being in 7 2-5 seconds above the 20- 
second Beeson record, and that of George only 5 2-5 
seconds away from it. George Weir was first world's 
champion in this event in both 1915 and '16, while his 
brother rode close behind him for second in the former 
year. This quartette, I believe, cannot be equalled in 
the entire country. 

There's good old Jim Roach who rides in from the 
tucked away Cabbage Hill, which does not mix much 
outside and raises some of the best strawberries in the 
country. Jim's an old hand at the range game and a 
wizard in the maverick race. He won out first in the 
steer roping in 1912 in the fast time of .55 for two 
steers. Tommy Grimes in 1914 took the twelve hun- 
dred dollar purse and the three hundred fifty dollar 
Hamley saddle in 1914 with C. Prescott second and 

75 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Jack Fretz third. In 1920 Ray Bell roped the cham- 
pionship in the splendid average time for two steers, 
one in 33 3-5 seconds the other 29 seconds, totaling 
62 3-5 seconds. Roy Kivett was second and J. H. 
Strickland third, both Roy's and "Hughey's" best time 
being within four-fifths of a second and three-fifths 
of a second respectively of Ray Bell's best time, and 
in each case shorter than Bell's lowest time. 

Sam Garrett, Red Parker, Johnny Judd, Tom 
Grimes, Phil Snyder, Jason Stanley and Chas. Rein- 
hardt have all ridden into the finals for second or third 
championships — Joe Gardner taking third money in 
1919, though a top-notch roper. 

Another well-known roper, occasionally seen in the 
arena contests, is Dan E. Clark, live stock agent for 
the Oregon Short Line Railroad Company of the 
Union Pacific System. 

Three steers apiece were turned in from the pad- 
docks by the Round-Up for the 1916 championship 
contestants and it was a remarkable trio which rode 
into the finals and hopped to 'em — George Wier, Ed. 
McCarty and Chester Byers. They rode to the cham- 
pionship in the order given and made the average of 
2 minutes 5 1-5 seconds, 2 minutes 22 2-5 seconds and 
2 minutes 52 seconds, all three together running down, 
roping, busting and hog-tieing nine steers in 7 minutes 
19 3-5 seconds. How long would it take you to drive 
one of the long-horned brutes into a barn? 

Wait just a minute. Let's watch this buckaroo — 
he's tried out one bucker successfully, but this horse 
is a bad one — Thrown! but he "rode pretty" while he 
rode. The old timers seem to know him. 
"What's his name?" 

"Helmick — Dave E. Helmick, of Madison County, 

76 



CORRAL DUST 

Iowa, he came out to Kansas in '68, farmed, rode and 
trapped," says Jinks Taylor, leaning over from his sad- 
dle. Helmick has just come from the John Day 
country way where the miners struck it rich in the 
sixties. Today this rough country with its many bluffs 
south of The Dalles, particularly between the Forks 
of the John Day and in the Harney River country, pro- 
duce some of the best buckaroos in the world. They 
sometimes begin to ride at the age of three and break 
horses at ten in this country, and only quit when they 
are stove up old cowpunchers. 

Helmick's probably the oldest living active cowboy 
in the country and is here to compete. Last year ne 
won the championship bucking title at the Grant 
County contests at Canyon City from eleven contest- 
ants, all young fellows. Helmick insists on riding the 
same old turtle-back saddle he has ridden for the past 
twenty-nine years. The bucking board of Canyon City 
offered him the best Thomas saddle that could be made 
but he would not take it. His old standby has just been 
repaired here this week, but despite its long service the 
committee feel that it's not strong enough for the 
Round-Up outlaws. How old is Helmick ? Oh ! yes — 
why sixty-eight and not stove up yet. 

At the tryouts, or the morning contests, one forgets 
the arena and the all but empty bleachers ; one lives in 
the spirit of the real life, with its settings of a memo- 
ried past framing the background. One is just in a big 
cov/-camp, with saddles and blankets lying around; 
cowboys, cowgirls, horses and Texas longhorns, knock- 
ing about in a devil-may-care sort of way as though 
on a range round-up or at a branding. One looks 
away through the gap between the bleachers to the 
smoke-tipped lodges of the Umatillas. 

77 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Long before the coming of the paleface, the red man 
had pitched his tepees along the banks of the little 
river which carries down the rains and the melted 
snows of the Blue Mountains in northeastern Oregon 
to the Columbia. These Amerinds were of the Uma- 
tilla tribe from which the river itself and the town of 
Umatilla at its mouth derive their names. How fitting 
that in these cottonwoods, but a stone's throw from the 
arena, the descendants of this and neighboring tribes, 
these children of forest and plain, should come to live 
again the old tepee life of an almost bygone day. 

Where do they come from, these autochthonous 
Americans? A few miles east of Pendleton in the 
Umatilla valley and on the slopes and in the draws of 
the Blue Mountains lie their homes on what is left 
of the Umatilla Reservation. This reservation was at 
one time a territory four hundred and fifty miles 
square bordering Pendleton on the southeast. 

Following the treacherous killing of courageous Dr. 
Whitman, the Presbyterian missionary and pioneer 
leader, at Wai'-letpu station by the Cayuses in 1847, 
the going on the war-path by the Indians was the 
greatest dread of the pioneers. These uprisings oc- 
curred against settlers and United States troopers 
every now and then, while the lone dweller in the wild- 
erness often had much reason to fear attack at any 
time. After the noted massacre of Whitman and his 
associates, others occurred — from the Rouge (later 
Rogue) River massacre and the Modoc War, down to 
when the Snake tribe stole over the Blue Mountains 
from Pocatello and slaughtered the unwary ranchers 
in the vicinity of Pendleton, and to this day they are 
known to many old pioneers by no other name than 
" 'Twelka" — enemy. These conditions resulted mainly 

78 



CORRAL DUST 

from the usurpation of the red man's hunting grounds 
by the whites. 

In 1856 a treaty was enacted with the Indians and 
thus war was ended as far as the Umatillas were con- 
cerned. But it was not until three years later that the 
President of the United States ratified the treaty. 
This resulted in the Umatilla Reservation being estab- 
lished and assigned to the three neighboring tribes — 
the Umatilla, Walla Walla and Cayuses, as a home 
territory. There they lived under the United States 
Agency until 1882. 

Then a large portion of their land was sold and the 
remnant of these tribes, only eleven hundred, including 
breeds, were assigned allotments on the remainder of 
the reservation. The Indian's lands have been so cut 
up through sale and lease that now they are often de- 
prived of range for their grass-fed horses, which may 
be seen any day getting their meager picking along the 
grassy spots of the roadside, and reaching as far as 
their scrawny necks will permit over the barbed wire 
to the green selvage of the wheat fields. Their feed 
is so scarce and their condition so poor, with range 
so curtailed, that this forage is not sufficient to prevent 
many from perishing in any continuous cold stormy 
weather, when their carcasses will sometimes be found 
by hundreds over the country. 

It is claimed by some that the first house erected by 
a white man in the county was built by Father Brouil- 
let. This cabin, later accidentally burned by Indian 
boys while at play, was on old Chief Isakaya's land be- 
tween the present warehouses and the new bridge at 
the agency. It is recorded that when the first settlers 
came in here from the east the nearest and only 
whites were twelve squaw men, employees of the Hud- 

79 



LET 'ER BUCK 

son's Bay Company, who were living on the banks of 
the Willamette. 

Among the more interesting characters of the early 
pioneer Missionaries was the young Belgian priest, 
Father Louis Conrardy, one of the greatest students of 
the Nez Perce language and who later joined Father 
Damien at the famous leper colony at Molokai. 

Among some of the principle characters of the 
Indians of the pioneer period living in this vicinity is 
Chief Tanitau, also a venerable old Indian named 
Tiwelkatimini is mentioned as well as Welestimeneen. 
It seems, too, that Chiefs Aulishwampo, Five Crows, 
Alakat and Isakaya all pitched their tepees along the 
banks of the Umatilla itself as do the Indians in the 
Round-Up village today. 

Here now you find about six hundred Indians, near- 
ly the entire population of the reservation, and among 
them not only representatives of the Umatilla (Yuwa- 
tella), of the Cayuse (Wai'-letpu) from the land of the 
Paska, or Yellow Flower and the Walla Walla, but of 
the Yakimas and Columbias with whom they have in- 
termarried, while occasionally Nez Perce, Bannocks 
and Oklahomas dwell amongst them. The three tribes 
of the Umatilla Reservation, brought together by the 
government, originally known as the Wai'-letpu, have 
now blended. 

An open lane through the grove forms a village 
thoroughfare, on either side of which the tepees are 
pitched. The squaws of some of the later arrivals are 
still busy unloading the cayuse-pulled rigs and pitching 
with inborn know-howness, their tepees of blue, white, 
striped and variegated canvas. Children rollick about, 
turned-out horses feed nearby, and hunks of raw meat 
are cached high up on poles out of reach of the dogs. 

80 



CORRAL DUST 

That nearest tepee is of buffalo hide — most all were 
buffalo hide in the old days — but now a buffalo-hide 
tepee is rarer than the buffalo itself and brings a higher 
price than many a small modern house will fetch. It 
is also a fact that some of the native American cos- 
tumes are far more valuable than those made by many 
a king's tailor. The eagle feathers of a fine war- 
bonnet, which may number fifty to sixty, are valued 
at anywhere from two to five dollars a plume accord- 
ing to size and quality. Then there is the exquisite, 
solid beadwork of vest, trousers, belt and moccasins. 

Every "tepee," which term is often used to mean a 
family, preserves carefully its ceremonial costumes, 
including among the possessions of the old people, no 
doubt, a number of those symbols of the victories over 
enemy tribes and the paleface — scalps. But these tro- 
phies are never brought to light as far as the white 
man is concerned. 

It has been for many years the custom in the North- 
west for communities to invite in the Indians for the 
Fourth of July celebrations to such an extent that this 
anniversary of our Independence Day is observed by 
the Indians as their Shapatkan. At this time they 
pitch a village of seventy-five or eighty encircling 
tepees on their reservation and attire themselves as of 
old, and at night by the light of their campfires you 
behold flashlight glimpses of tableaux of a passing 
people. In fact Shapatkan has become a real Indian 
ceremonial, a celebration by the former owners of this 
country in honor of the freedom of its present occu- 
pants. 

Here a wigwam is open ; you know the family is at 
home because the noose of the lap is not run through 
with little sticks. Glenn Bushee, that white man there, 

« 81 



LET 'ER BUCK 

knows them all. Everybody likes Glenn ; the Indians 
call him Tall Pine. He can deceive all but the initiated 
when in his inimitable chief's costume during celebra- 
tions. 

This is Red Bull's tepee. Glenn says something and 
Agnes Red Bull, the pretty daughter, carefully goes 
through some belongings, and spreads before us on 
the rugs, with which the ground is carpeted, a spotted 
blue woolen Indian dress. The spots are elk's teeth 
selected for their quality and each carefully stitched 
on — seven hundred all told — making the value of this 
girl's gown about thirty-five hundred dollars. 

In the corner is an Indian you have scarcely observed 
— she's a stranger and is visiting this tepee. You will 
observe her, however, intently enough in the women's 
bucking contests, when she rides as the star Indian girl 
bucking-horse rider and waves a small American flag 
while she does it — she's Princess Redbird. 

We wend through the forest of tepees and cotton- 
woods. Naturally that group of Indians there are in- 
terested in that band of tethered horses for they are 
some of the Indian relay strings. The young buck who 
is giving them some points on his relay string is 
Richard Burke, who with his brother, Robert, not only 
won the Indian relay world championship race in 1913 
and 1916 respectively, but these two sons of Poker Jim 
hold the two best Indian relay records. 

Robert made the mile relay in one day riding on the 
quarter mile track in 2 minutes 13 seconds, while his 
brother Richard made it in 2 minutes 20 seconds. 
Ralph Farrow rode in only two seconds behind Robert 
Burke's total record time and Farrow's brother Jess, 
who won the first honors in 1920, completes a remark- 
able quartette of Indian relay riders. 

82 



CORRAL DUST 

However, Luke Cayapoo, Tom Shelal, Mox-mox, 
and J. White Plume have also taken second champion- 
ship places, and Lucien Williams, Bud Reed, Gilbert 
Minthorn and Dave Shippentower, who have won 
third places, have all of them given the Burkes and 
Farrows a hot run for their money. 

Most of these riders go in for the other major events 
— the buckaroos in particular are excellent ropers and 
nervy bulldoggers. Minthorn enters his team of four 
horses which he drives in the stagecoach races. Then 
there is Burgess, the Oklahoma Indian, who competes 
in a number of events. 

That splendid blue and white tepee sending a blue 
smoke against distant golden hills, is Sundown's. 
Jackson Sundown is a full-blooded Nez Perce, a superb 
type of his race. Not only his remarkable riding, but 
his splendid quality of mind and character have made 
him a prime favorite with all. Physically he is a sight 
for the gods with his erect carriage and lithe, agile 
body, which still bears the scars of three bullet wounds 
in fights against the whites in the long ago now, under 
his intrepid and famous uncle. Chief Joseph. Little 
wonder A. Phimister Proctor, the noted sculptor, se- 
lected him as nearest to his ideal type of the American 
Indian, and camped for six weeks on Sundown's land 
near Culdesac, Idaho, while Sundown posed daily for 
Proctor's "The Indian Pursuing a Buffalo." 

The beautiful bead-embroidered buckskin- fringed 
gauntlets, solid beaded with decorative roses on a white 
background which he proudly shows us, were made by 
his wife of whom he is very fond, "Hi-yu-skookum 
gloves, (very good gloves) Sundown." Although 
Sundown speaks some English, he will understand our 
jargon, for the Nez Perce and Umatilla are linguis- 

83 



LET 'ER BUCK 

tically the same. Or if you speak "chinook" he will 
understand that too for "chinook" is a universal Indian 
language — the esperanto of the red man understood by 
all tribes at least of the Northwest. The word "chi- 
nook" is also applied to the warm wind from the Japan 
current which melts the snow even in midwinter. 

Numipu, as the Nez Perce tongue is called, is the 
mother language of the Palouse, Cayuse, Umatilla, 
Walla Walla and Yakima languages. Father A. Mor- 
villo, the Jesuit, or "Talsag" — Curly-hair — as the 
Indians called him, left a remarkable dictionary and 
grammar of the Nez Perce tongue, but probably Father 
Cataldo must be conceded as the greatest authority on 
Indian language. But more of Sundown later. 

To the initiated, the principal episode of the Indian's 
life, his times and seasons may be read in the painting 
of his person. Whether it be learning to hunt and 
trap; reaching manhood, seeking a creed, or meeting 
the spirit of his dreams, going to war, seeking a mate, 
going to battle, coming home as victor, undergoing de- 
feat, joy and feasting, death and mourning, seeking the 
priesthood, medicine and burying, becoming a seer and 
being able to travel far in spirit, of religious character 
and used especially at the great annual festival of mid- 
summer, peacemaking, traveling or visiting, — all may 
be expressed by appropriate symbols. 

In these face and body paintings are symbols that 
he who runs may read, though few in this white audi- 
ence know — or care — what those earth and mineral 
colorings on face and form mean. Many of the Amer- 
inds themselves know but little of that fast-disappear- 
ing art of decorative symbolism; only the old people 
amongst them know. But they use today the same kind 
of mineral colors they used on the panels of the Buffa- 

84 



CORRAL DUST 

lo Lodge and Mooseskin Lodge of the tribes, anci 
when, after the coming of the horse, the redmen 
daubed and painted his mount in his ceremonials as 
well. 

Also on the panels of his lodges he, like the white 
man, has put on canvas in mural decorations the life 
history of his race and tribe, of the courage, endurance 
and skill of the warrior, hunter, and lawgiver who oc- 
cupied them. Thus his lodges became the pantheon of 
his immortelles and their deeds, — an object lesson dur- 
ing the life-time of their glory. 

Another generation will see the obliteration of the 
old yet fascinating customs of their ancestors. Their 
art, their songs, their dances, their sincere understand- 
ing love of nature, their simple direct communion 
with the Great Spirit, their admirable tribal social 
structure, their formerly healthy minds and healthier 
bodies, will have passed away, and civilizitis will have 
accomplished its deadly work. 

The medicine man under some conditions is some- 
times even today brought in, and feigns to cure the sick 
and avert death by performing certain contortions and 
working his incantations. To some extent the old 
rites and superstitions of the Indians still persist; the 
tom-tom is their prayer, and they quite naturally cling 
to their beautiful old legends and customs of bygone 
days — days when they roamed meads and mountain 
glens, when herds browsed on luxurious bunchgrass on 
hilly slopes, and game abounded in every forest nook. 

Listen! An old Indian slowly rides his horse 
through the avenue of tepees, and every now and then 
gives vent to a strange weird exclamation, continuing 
his calls to the end of the village and rides slowly back. 
It is the Indian town crier, advising the village of 

85 



LET 'ER BUCK 

orders in regard to preparing for the parade tomorrow. 
They will all be busy now putting finishing touches on 
their costumes. 

"Go get 'em, cowboy!" yelled a wrangler. In as 
many seconds as it takes to tell this a dozen buckaroos 
leaped into their saddles, headed for the open Round- 
Up gate entrance, disengaging their ropes from their 
saddle bows as they rode to head off a cloud of dust 
with a dark woolly object at its apex traveling through 
space like a comet. Luckily this quick action headed 
off the passage to freedom of one of the pair of 
buffalo belonging to the Round-Up stock. 

Can a buffalo run? Well, some of those boys re- 
membered the vacation this animal took a year prev- 
ious, when it eventually traveled nearly three hundred 
miles across country before they ran it down. Three 
ropes now encircled it — over horns, on a fore and on 
a hind leg — then they lead the "onery" little beast back 
through the Indian village to the stock corrals. 

Open contests are often held for the naming of ani- 
mals, "Sharkey" was selected for the champion buck- 
ing bull, and Henry Vogt for his close Jersey second. 
"Letta" and "Buck" won as names for the young cow 
and bull buffaloes. During the war Buck died. Later 
a war baby was born — Letta had a catteloe calf — sus- 
picion was said to rest on Henry Vogt. 

Earlier that morning a bunch of us, mostly members 
of the committee, had been helping unload from the 
cars some wild range longhorns fresh from Laredo, 
Texas. A steer knows a gate when he sees it. 
"Whoop'ee," and the entire herd was stampeding 
straight through the Indian village, a wild bellowing 
herd, running a race with a dust storm and our ponies 
alongside at breaknecking speed. Pandemonium broke 

86 



CORRAL DUST 

loose among the dogs ; squaws grabbed up the younger 
children, while the older scudded for cover amongst the 
cottonwoods and tepees. 

"Head 'em off," yelled Sam Thompson — and *'head 
'em off" we did, but some went through the nearest 
tent. 

"Let's get these pets into the corral," shouted Bill 
Switzler, and in a few minutes the gate swung in on 
a dilatory steer and they were corralled. 

Wild Bill Switzler lives most of the time up in the 
Horse Heaven country. The rest of the time he lives 
on a horse, when he is not running the Ferry at Uma- 
tilla. Horse Heaven country? What, never heard of 
it ? Well, there is lots of country, wonderful unbroken 
country in Oregon and the West you haven't heard of, 
besides the John Day and Harney Country you already 
have heard about. There's Camas Prairie of the In- 
dians, with its millions of feet of virgin timber await- 
ing the railroad — may it wait long, — and there's Grant 
County awaiting settlement. Which leads one to 
wonder why we Americans don't travel at home a bit 
and get acquainted with God's country. 

The way through Horse Heaven is only along par- 
allel cattle trails with drift fences ending nowhere, 
where man is scarce and the bunchgrass is thick and 
winter shelter and feed are plentiful. Here the ordin- 
ary wild bunchgrass grows knee high to a tall 
Injun. "Rolling in clover" has nothing on this 
for an equine dream. Here herds led by their stallions 
practically run wild, never even seen by man sometimes 
for many months at a time. Horse Heaven, indeed, — 
you'll find it marked on a good map of Oregon and 
Washington in the center of a townless fork of country 
between the Yakima River and the Columbia. 

37 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Here Bill Switzler, an all-round range man has a 
ranch across from Umatilla in tlie heart of the Horse 
Heaven, seventeen miles. Which trail? Take any — 
there are hundreds — cattle made them. They'll all 
take you to Bill's ranch — or beyond it. 

The wild horses used in the wild horse race at the 
Round-Up come from Wild Bill's ranch ; Bill and his 
father once owned twenty thousand head. He begins 
months ahead with his outfit to round up the wildest 
from their retreats far from the haunts of man. Bill 
had just come in with a wild bunch. There they are, 
safely within one of the corrals, shy, fighting, biting, 
kicking, squealing, cautious and cunning as the coyotes 
with whom they had been reared. 

The director of competitive events had called for 
some of the buckers, as they were still trying out some 
of the buckaroos in the arena. There they all were. 
In the next corrals to the wild horse band were the 
buckers themselves, including famous names amongst 
their number, as well known in the Northwest as Ty 
Cobb or Babe Ruth. Get up on the fence or ride up 
closer here beside tall, slim Bill Ridings, one of the 
wranglers ; he'll point 'em out. 

"That big, heavy-built, dark sorrel. Long Tom, is 
king of 'em all," drawls Slim. "Once he was a hard- 
working plow horse, till someone thought he could ride 
'im. He's been just thinkin' about it ever since, and 
so have a lot of 'em," 

"That sorrel mare is Whistling Annie. You can sure 
hear the wind go by when yer on her. The white horse 
with the half moon circle brand on his left flank is a 
good un — that means a bad un, get me ? He's Snake, a 
sun-fishing devil and one of the hardest to wrangle; 
so's Sledgehammer, that big dapple gray. Last year at 



CORRAL DUST 

the Round-Up in the Friday mornin', old Sledge want- 
ed to ride himself, so he just chased the boy right off 
the saddle of the snubbing horse and got right up in 
the saddle himself, but the judges wouldn't allow it. 

"That white-faced black un is Hot Foot; he chills 
'em when he stalls skyward and then volplanes down. 
There's Angel, only he is in disguise, and that there is 
Midnight, but mostly goodnight to those who think 
they can ride him; the next is Bugs, but few of 'em 
dare scratch 'im. Them there's Brown Eyes and Bat- 
tling Nelson, Sunfish Mollie 'n' Fuzzy 'n' Rambling 
Sam in that bunch," Bill pointed with his quirt. "And 
in that other corral in yonder corner is Lightning 
Creek, Rimrock, Corkscrew 'n' Desolation. You sure 
do feel lonely on him. They were all used in the semi- 
finals last year, and so was Bill Hart, over there under 
the shade of that willow. Hughey Strickland showed 
Sundance there a new step, though, when he rode him. 
That feller Black Diamond — he's sure worth his 
weight in gold to this outfit. 

"See that boss with his eyes closed, sleepin' like? 
That's No-Name because the Round-Up ain't got no 
name bad enough to express 'im, and the Round-Up's 
so hard put to it to find one, that they're even willin' 
to pay the feller that gits a worse name fer him than 
any of the rest of the bunch. Name 'im and you can 
have 'im, I says — he's why I'm limping — lucky fer me 
he wern't shod." 

"The chestnut there is Unknown, by that I mean it's 
what he's called, but we know him hereabouts all right, 
and so we do old Leatherneck yonder, — he's tough as 
tripe. But say, pard, the horse licking the other's 
shoulder 's You Tell Em — most of 'em can't, after 
they've patted his back. And say, pard, take it from 

89 



LET 'ER BUCK 

me, — them two what's together now right here by this 
trough sure are two of the heaviest buckers that I ever 
did see. The nigh un's I Be Damn and the off un's U 
Be Damn, and I'll be " 

"Git them 'cattle/ " yelled Wild Bill as he rode for 
some of the wild horses to be wrangled, with Jess 
Brunn and other wranglers hot after him. Come on; 
let's help cut out this "stuff." 

If you have never tried to cut out and rope some 
particular wild horses out of a stampeding bunch, rip- 
tearing about a corral in a cyclone of dust, with lar- 
iats, cowboys and fence splinters criss-crossing in all 
directions like a Patagonian williwaw there are some 
thrills left for you. 

Any horse you may think you want, knows it as 
quick as you do — human mental telepathy has nothing 
on that wild cayuse. As quick as you think him, he will 
put another horse or more between you and him, and 
always maneuver into the most impossible position for 
your rope or for you to handle it after you get it. He'll 
dodge, duck and disappear in the herd. Even after he 
is roped, particularly if by the neck, he'll fight until his 
wind is choked off which is bad for the horse. Then 
comes getting him out of the corral. 

I well remember one little calico cayuse we went 
after that morning. 

"Rope him, cowboy, awful wild," yelled Ridings. 

"No wild horse, it's a woman's horse. I believe you 
can drive him," chuckled Wild Bill with a grin, watch- 
ing from his saddle by the gate. "You told me you 
wanted 'em wild, but I could only find these pets for 
you," and Bill went on grinning. 

S-s-r-r-r ! went Blancett's rope, but the little cayuse's 
head ducked between two horses. 

90 



CORRAL DUST 

"If he'd had horns I shore'd've 'ad him," smiled 
Dell as he hauled back his rope. 

"Good 'a boy!" called Winnamucca Jack, the Indian 
wrangler, when after ten minutes in the choking, blind- 
ing dust, Dell made a pretty throw and the calico 
"scrubtail" was roped. 

Few phases of range work or of the Round-Up are 
more risky or afford a greater variety of inducement 
for a man to harness up to a life insurance policy than 
the gentle art of wrangling wild horses. The men who 
have charge of rounding up, driving in, assisting in the 
cutting out, roping, saddling and turning the animals 
back to range are known as wranglers. Their business 
is to know the location or drift of the horses, their 
habits and ways. 

On a cattle ranch, the horses to be used in the day's 
work by the cowboys are brought from range or pad- 
dock (and a paddock may be several miles square) 
into the corral in the early morning, by the wranglers. 
When breakfast is finished, there is no time lost in 
"cutting out" the horses to use in the day's work and 
getting at it; then the "stufif" not needed is at once 
turned back into the range. There has been many an 
unadvertised bucking contest between man and beast 
pulled off within a corral during morning saddling up. 

When it is time for the round-up of cattle and horses 
for branding, marking, "cutting out" in the spring, or 
for the fall cutting out and drive, the foreman and his 
outfit of cowboys go out as far as he thinks cattle 
would go for water, say eight or ten miles, throws out 
two men together every half mile — strung over a dis- 
tance of perhaps four or five miles. Everything is then 
driven toward a common objective, generally, but not 
always, towards water. This is a round-up. 

91 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Then comes working the cattle or "cutting out," the 
strays, i. e., branded cattle of other owners, or "mave- 
ricks" which are the unbranded cattle ; separating those 
they want from those they do not want — the others 
they let go right back on the same grass. Say, out of a 
herd of four or six thousand, there might be eight hun- 
dred or a thousand which did not belong there. When 
they have finished working the bunch, they push those 
belonging on that range back again. 

Horses always run on the range in bands and in- 
variably stay in the same band. Even if there are a 
thousand head which drink at the same water hole, 
when through, the entire herd disintegrates to their re- 
spective bands. The head stallion is monarch of his 
band, and if a mare lags she is not likely to again, for 
with the swiftness of the wind he will round her up, 
likely as not biting a piece right out of her. 

Now on a round-up, which in the old days or on a 
few big ranches today, lasts a month or so, the range 
work was exceptionally exhausting to the horses. 
Sometimes a single rider would use a half dozen differ- 
ent horses or more in a single day. Consequently a 
large herd, or band of horses was required. The 
bands of saddle horses used on a round-up are called 
"cavies" and are used every day. On a round-up in 
the '80's in Washington where the cavy comprised 
some six or eight cavies — fifty to eighty in each — the 
whole number totalled some six hundred horses. 

These horses were in charge of the wranglers, who 
were divided into a day and a night shift, for wrang- 
lers during the round-up which was on the move, 
stayed with the horses all night and brought them into 
the corral in the morning. Each outfit had its "chuck- 
wagon," in which food was carried and all the appur- 

92 



CORRAL DUST 

tenances for cooking it. Each outfit was under its own 
foreman until in the saddle for the day's work, when 
they were then under the head foreman. 

It seems likely that the term, "wrangler," comes 
from caverango — the Spanish for the man who had 
the care of the saddle horses. East of the Columbia 
River the term "wrango" or "rango" was used. From 
"cavo" the term "cavy" was undoubtedly derived, 
while "wrango" was undoubtedly derived from 
"rango," from which in turn the anglicized ultimate 
of er was added with an / and we have the range term 
of "wrangler." Also it is not illogical to assume that 
"rancho," "range," "rancher," "ranger" are all deriva- 
tives of the same root origin. 

When the rounding-up outfits are on the move, a 
temporary rope corral is provided. A rope corral is 
sometimes made of a rope simply laid off the ground 
on some sagebrush, being safer it is said than some 
fence corrals in keeping the horses in. The horses are 
broken to a rope corral by being allowed to try to es- 
cape from a fence corral over a piece of rope stretched 
at a certain height across the open gateway. They 
rarely jump clear of a rope, which gives them some 
nasty spills and they learn their lesson. 

Horses are trained for special work — hence a good 
"ropin' hoss" might not be a good "cut hoss," used for 
cutting out cattle from the peratha, the bunch of cattle 
which are being "cut into" for the purpose of being 
"cut out." 

The Round-Up has the hardest buckers to be found 
anywhere and are sought everywhere from New Mex- 
ico to Canada ; for real top-notchers, like Long Tom, 
for instance, fabulous prices are paid. The bucker U 
Tell 'Em was originally bought by his owner for forty 

93 



"PAWIN', HOOFIN' AND RARIN' TER GO!" 

Even the empty bleachers at the morning tryouts of some of 
the newer horses during the week before the big show witness 
some bucking events which are equal to many of those in the 
arena. In this case Henry Warren is riding true to form on 
the terror Bearcat, true to his name, he is even bent on scratching 
the wrangler who has failed to make a quick getaway after 
pulling the gunnysack blind. 

The rules of the Round-Up for the cowboy's bucking contest 
for the championship of the world, prescribe that the riders for 
each day shall be determined by lot, that is they group them, so 
as to efficiently balance and distribute the contesting on each of 
the three days ; that the cowboys are to ride on horses to be 
furnished by the management and the riders to draw for mounts. 
Not less than six riders are to be chosen on the third day to ride 
in the semi-finals and not less than three to be chosen from the 
six to ride in the finals. 

Each contestant must ride as often as the judges may deem 
it necessary to determine the winner. The riding is to be done 
with chaps, spurs and sombrero but no quirt, with a plain halter 
and rope, one end of the rope free, all riding slick and no chang- 
ing hands on the halter rope is allowed. No saddle fork over 
fifteen and a half inches is permitted and when the great show 
opens and the first bucker is wrangled and the rider is all set, 
it's — tighten the cinch, take off the blind, let 'er buck in front, 
let 'er buck behind. 



W. S. Bowman 



.^ 




Pawin', Hoofin' and Rarin' ter Go" 



p 




SADDLE HIM OR BUST 

Here is one seat not taken at the Round-Up — it has been re- 
served for you. It shows how they wrangle a bad one at 
Pendleton. No more striking illustration of the entire art and 
technique of wrangling could be obtained though composed with 
the free brush of a painter — the balance of the composition, the 
centralized interest, the action, the story element is all there. 

The bucker's dangerous forestriking made it too risky for men 
on foot to handle his snubbing rope, so they brought the little 
snubbing horse into play and with the rope have snubbed the 
outlaw's nose close to the saddle horn, one man beneath the 
horse's head handling the play or pay of the snubbing rope. With 
a wild leap the fighting, biting demon endeavors to reach the 
nervy wrangler in the saddle. He in turn, one foot out of stirrup, 
as a precaution, seizes his antagonist in the most approved fashion 
by an ear and is successfully tucking the blind under the further 
haltei leather. The blinded man-fighter will now probably be 
manageable until the saddle lying near him, is cinched up and 
the rider ensconced in it. 

In the background on old Nellie, Herbert Thompson, assistant 
livestock director, and one of the pick-up men, who must be expert 
horsemen, "stands by" ready to "take up" the horse at the 
judge's pistol which signals the ride is ended. Star riders like 
Caldwell, always help the pick-up men by handing over 
their halter rope as they ride alongside. In some big shows in 
Winnipeg for instance, straight wrangling is done away with, 
the horse being saddled and the rider mounting in a chute from 
which he debouches into the arena and thus is done away with 
one of the hazardous, but most picturesque phases of range life. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

dollars, not knowing how he could buck, and sold to 
the Round-Up for five hundred, an offer of eight hun- 
dred coming in a few minutes too late after the deal 
was closed. 

The Round-Up buckers are given the best care which 
also means given a full free life on the range, and in 
winter no matter under what difificulties or cost are 
given hay; but they are never ridden except at the 
bucking contests. 

Sometimes the buckers take it into their heads to 
break range and travel, and more than once the live- 
stock director has had to send out a "posse" of expert 
trackers to run them down. The last break of this sort 
was when the pony, donkey, and Angel led by Ram- 
bling Sam escaped over the hills and far away before 
they were rounded-up. 

The wrangler, in a way, is the stable man of the 
range, the caretaker of the horses in use, and about 
the corrals and stables of the Round-Up at Pendleton 
one finds some old experts at handling. Fred Stickler, 
who has been barn boss for many a Round-Up, has 
that peculiar inborn knack of not only handling skit- 
tish range horses in the stables, but of walking with 
impunity right amongst a corral full of wild horses 
where many a man would be kicked and stamped upon. 
Fred has a quiet manner of gentling and speaking to 
them which they understand, and as one rancher re- 
marked, "without any fuss or feathers." 

Some of the best wranglers in the country like Bill 
Ridings and Jess Brunn have a chance to show their 
caution, cleverness, understanding of horses and met- 
tle in the arena during the contests in this he-man's 
game, when the dangerous, wild, squealing, man-fight- 
ing buckers are brought in. Being trampled upon is 

96 



CORRAL DUST 

one of the least of wrangling evils, though Missouri 
Slim, one of the wranglers sitting on that bale of feed 
over there, has removed a boot and is nursing a badly 
bruised foot. 

'Tixin' up yer foot?" dryly comments a cowboy as 
he dismounts, "Wastin' good liniment on that foot!" 



97 



CHAPTER FOUR 
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

After the long shadows change the golden valley to 
night, you wander under the clustering lights of Main 
Street, where the crowds surge in that orderly, happy, 
holiday spirit for which the Round-Up stands. Dur- 
ing Round-Up Pendleton harks back a generation, 
turns back the calendar a few decades, shifts its 
clothes and steps into the life from which it has but 
just crossed over the threshold. Pendleton does this 
with such an easy grace and naturalness that while the 
Round-Up is a great community drama it is also a re- 
enaction of the verve and urge of its pioneer spirit, and 
literally reeks with the atmosphere of an old frontier 
town. Although any time the visitor may feel the 
Round-Up spirit, see fragments of its setting or some 
of its participants, booted, chapped or blanketed on the 
streets, it is hard for him to realize that for three hun- 
dred and fifty days Pendleton gives itself over to the 
busy workaday life of ranch and industry and that it 
is only for about seven days out of the year it lives 
again the life of the old West in such a vivid manner — 
perhaps it is still harder for the visitor to understand 
why it doesn't. 

The old original settlement of Pendleton was called 
Marshall after a gentleman of the early days who, it 

98 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

was said, could make a nickel look like a tidal wave 
and who ran a rollicky place at that old stage-stop a 
few miles west of the present city. This was after- 
wards known as Swift's Crossing — because Swift the 
carpenter lived there. Things and places hereabouts 
or in any frontier country the world over go by the 
names of people who wore or made the things or lived 
in the places or because of certain happenings, condi- 
tions, people or things connected with them, hence — 
"Stetson" hat, chapps, Camas Prairie, Grizzly, Crooked 
River, Wagon Tire, Happy Canyon, Half Way, 
Swift's Crossing, and so on. 

It was at Swift's Crossing that they changed horses 
between Cayuse and Umatilla — you can see the spot 
now down river a bit where the Umatilla makes a turn 
and the old road takes steep up grade — just below the 
new State Hospital. Later Swift's Crossing moved 
up to Pendleton, at least its inhabitants did; today 
there's not a vestige of a habitation left on its old site. 
So then the old Pendleton Hostelry, the first hotel in 
Pendleton, became the stage-stop and Dave Horn 
and other stage drivers changed horses here, where 
before they had only pulled up for passengers and mail. 

The center of Pendleton, which took its name — and 
thereby hangs a story — from Senator Pendleton of 
Ohio, was marked, the old-timers will tell you, when 
Moses Goodwin, whose wife Aura was known as the 
mother of Pendleton, drove in a stake on his home- 
stead, when first surveyed, at the corner of the block 
where the First National Bank now stands, and gave 
this site to the county. 

"Here," he said, "is where the courthouse is to be" 
and there it stood for many years, and this corner is 
now the center of the city. The reason the city is not 

99 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Jaid off due north and south is because Moses Goodwin, 
when he laid the foundations for the old Pendleton 
Hotel, did not set it straight. The lines of the new 
hotel, an up-to-date, six-story structure, are on the ex- 
act site of the old tavern. 

For three days now, the contestants have been step- 
ping into the American National Bank to sign up on 
the Round-Up entry books. This year there are over 
two hundred palefaces and over one hundred redmen. 
But tomorrow is the first day of the Great Show. So 
let's turn in here and climb the steep flight of stairs to 
the committee's headquarters. It is a big barn of a 
room; you see it is crowded with practically the entire 
buckaroo "outfit," — cowboys, cowgirls, Indians and 
occasionally a Mexican — as swarthy, orderly and pic- 
turesque a crowd as you could find. The man on that 
table above the sombreros in the upper strata of tobac- 
co smoke is one of the committee. He's calling the 
names of the entrants for the events. See, each in 
turn steps up and draws from the broad-brimmed hat 
the number of the horse that he is to attempt to ride. 

Watch "Tex" Daniels, that rangy, powerfully built 
buckaroo worming through the crowd. He's drawing 
now. 

"Tex Daniels rides Long Tom!" is announced. 
"Wow ! Wow !" and the banterings from the crowd 
show that Long Tom is not only a well-known horse, 
but is the bugbear of the riders and king of the buckers. 

"George Attebury on McKay, Ed McCarthy on 
Light Foot, Fred Heide on Hot Foot, Art Acord on 
Butter Creek, Hoot Gibson on Mrs. Wiggs," so the 
drawing goes on, and you become familiar with the 
names and faces of the greatest contingent of experts 
in frontier sports to be found on the globe. Among 

100 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

those here just now are Hazel Walker, Blanche Mc- 
Caughey, Minnie Thompson, and "Babe" Lee; there are 
John Baldwin, Armstrong, Dell Blancett, and Gerking, 
also Lucian Williams and other Indians, all wonderful 
riders, and many others among the contestants, from 
California to the Dakotas, from Mexico to Canada. 
There are a number new to Pendleton, but there's Mc- 
Cormack and Bob Cavin, besides many others who 
rank high among the kings and queens of reinland, 
whom you will have a better chance to meet tomorrow 
in the Round-Up Grounds at the tryouts and at the 
elimination contests in the morning. 

Of course there were a few saloons here as every- 
where and many of the boys in the old days turned 
into one or another of the bars and their pool tables 
and whiled away many an evening at The Idle Hour. 
But, now, although an occasional tailor may inquire 
of the successful cattle king whether he wants the hip 
pocket of his new suit cut for a pint or a quart, while 
the shadow of the dry season of prohibition in the 
Northwest is probably no more of a total eclipse than 
in other parts of the country, about the only way, it 
is rumored, of getting a little reflected light is to 
reach down into a badger hole and accidentally find it. 

How usage of terms is limited to their application 
and localized by the young, the untraveled, or those 
without the background of literature and history, is 
evidenced in the case of a Pendleton schoolboy, who 
recently in the course of his literary studies was ex- 
plaining a portion of Scott's Lady of the Lake. "Fitz- 
James arose and sought the moonshine pure," he read, 
then seriously, he paraphrased — "Fitz-James went out 
and found a keg of moonshine on the beach." 

It all takes one back to stirring border days, but the 

101 



LET 'ER BUCK 

symbol conspicuously absent is the six-shooter or a 
pair of 'em, lazing from the Hapless western holster. 
There are a few around, but out of sight. There's 
enough of gun-play from grandstand and bleacher in 
approval of the riding in the arena, at night in Happy 
Canyon, or in appreciation of the dance-hall band to 
lend color, or to satisfy any small boy. The ammuni- 
tion is quite harmless, unless you try to use the gun 
barrel as a telescope when the trigger's pulled. 

There are probably more guns packed by law-abiding 
American citizens today than is appreciated. But 
there is at least one section of Oregon, not far from 
Grant County and the John Day Country, where they 
aren't satisfied with carrying only one. This was strik- 
ingly evidenced in the case of a shooting scrape which 
was recently brought before the court. The witness 
was testifying for the purpose of showing that it was 
a habit to tote guns. 

"Is it the custom for people where you live to carry 
guns?" he was asked. 

"Yes, sir-r-ree." 

"More than one ?" 

"Yes, sir-r-ree." 

"How many?" 

"Well, sometimes mebbe I tote two 'n' sometimes 
mebbe I tote three." 

"What for?" 

"Well, I dun'no, but they all do — mebbe I might 
see a coyote or sumthin'." 

The truth was, it is a habit from childhood, a relic 
of border days. The railroad doesn't go through there 
yet. They just don't think they are dressed up with- 
out them. 

In many corners, you find a last remnant of the old 
102 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

frontier life, of those days of the survival of the fit- 
test when it was most unwise to hold, and often dan- 
gerous to apply an impractical theory. In a country 
built by an empirically-acting generation, everything 
had to relate and adapt itself to the positive conditions 
to be faced there. 

These border days imposed a peculiarly practical 
application even of religion to daily life. Within the 
memory of some Pendletonians church hours were ac- 
commodated to horse races. More than one dance w^as 
given in a saloon to raise money to furnish a ichurch. 
Even pleasure was not always allowed to interfere with 
religion. Once the superintendent of the union Sun- 
day school kept his expectant flock of lambs and angel- 
children impatiently waiting for a considerable space 
of time. Upon his tardy appearance, he confidently as 
well as confidentially remarked, as though the reason 
for the delay was a most worthy one, that "the poker 
game I was sitting in on was so plumb interesting, I 
couldn't break away from the boys." 

Now turn into that Pendleton institution of human 
ingenuity, Happy Canyon, which means a spot right 
in the heart of Pendleton where every one can com- 
plete a day of frontier fun. The main structure was 
completed in 1916 at a cost of twelve thousand dollars, 
the bleachers having a seating capacity of about five 
thousand people. Out in the arena you see the rip- 
roaring life of the range in its fullness, and at its best, 
but in Happy Canyon you see, drawn more vividly 
than any pen or brush can depict, the life of the fron- 
tier town. 

If you follow the Umatilla down from Pendleton, 
it will take you to where nature has sculptured out a 
wide defile before it broadens into the prairie. Today 

103 



LET 'ER BUCK 

a store and three or four houses called Nolin nestle 
here. This little hidden-away spot, in the days of the 
stage coach and pony express, was the most fertile spot 
of the surrounding country, a veritable little Garden of 
Eden with its vegetable lands and orchards. Here in this 
tucked-away paradise, many a dance was pulled off, not 
to mention other episodes, when the crowd rode in to 
the ranch house of one or the other of the settlers. 

The fiddler and the doctor were two of the most im- 
portant adjuncts to the community life of the frontier. 
Of course, it was possible to get along without the 
doctor, but the fiddler was indispensable, and as much 
in demand as ice cream at a church picnic. It was 
often necessary to scour the country for hundreds of 
miles to locate and engage the music. Then there was 
his side-partner, the "caller." Although month in and 
month out the dancers stepped through the figures of 
the quadrille, it was about as useless to hold a dance 
without a caller, as to brand a "critter" without an 
iron. 

How they did "hop to it" to the fiddle of "Happy 
Jack" Morton and the resonant calling of Jimmie 
Hackett's — 

"Honors to your partners. 

Yes, honors to the left, 

Swing that left hand lady round 

And all promenade." 

Then the midnight supper, and after the tables 
groaned less heavily under the sumptuous "muck-a- 
muck," on again whirled the dance, ll was "al-a-man 
{a la fimin) left" and "Sasshay and swing your part- 
ners," and the other fellow's too. Then each "boy" 
with all the strut and grace of an old gamecock, with 
a scratch or two and a drag of his high-heeled boots 

104 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

on the floor, a-cavorting and a-bobbing naively, did his 
prettiest to outvie old Chanticleer. What with the 
ever onward swing of the quadrille, spiced with an 
occasional wink of "red eye," the party, though the 
men were down to shirt sleeves, would begin to get 
pretty well "het up." Even the old fiddler now roped in 
a few maverick notes and skipped a bar or two, and 
"Onery Missouri" Joe didn't want to "know why," 
when the big paw of a sheepherder left its black im- 
print just above the waistline of the new "tarltan of 
his little prairie chicken." 

"Sass-shay all round. Promenade to your seats." 

Dawn would be stealing over the horizon. Most of 
the guests rode, it might be just a nearby twenty miles, 
or it might be over the country a bit, fifty or sixty. 

There would also be he-nights in that little gulch 
with only the males rounded up. Then the stepping 
would be high as well as lively, and they say — well, 
no wonder they called it Happy Canyon ; and no won- 
der when the Round-Up staged the evening show of the 
frontier town, they named it after the settlement in 
the halcyon days of the gulch, and made much of the 
program in replica of its "goin's on" and reproduced 
as well the canyon walls and snow-capped mountains 
behind it. 

For the time being you are in a little frontier world 
of fifty years ago. You look out from the bleachers on 
its "Main Street," backed by the saloon, Chinese laun- 
dry, millinery shop, a few smaller shacks, and the hotel 
all bedecked with signs as witty as they are crude. The 
hotel is an actual replica of the old Villard house, one 
of Pendleton's early pioneer hostelries. 

Every phase of the town of the days of Kit Carson, 
Buffalo Bill, "Peg Leg" Smith, and old "Hank" Cap- 

105 



A PIONEER OF THE OLD WEST 

A Type of Those Who Helped Cement the Great Northwest 
Into Our National Body Politic 

The Pilgrim was the outstanding figure on Europe's first 
frontier of Atlantic America, the Pioneer of the Old West is 
the outstanding character on Europe's last frontier, the Pacific 
United States. The Mayflower was the argosy which carried 
the American Republic, and Capt. Gray's Columbia an ark of 
covenant which extended its foundations and carried its laws and 
life into the Orient. 

The old time pioneer, typified the adventurous spirit of our 
restless race : he typified the urge, the expression of that ever- 
moving dynamic force we call human progress — the under- 
standing, control and right use by man of nature and its forces. 

The vast areas of the Pioneer's El Dorado have now been 
mapped, rivers whose surfaces were scarce alien-disturbed, save 
by the Indian's paddle or a salmon's leap, now are harnessed to 
mill and canning factory ; lairs of the wild things have given 
way to cities, forests to cleared lands, prairies of bunchgrass to 
teeming counties of grain, the lone square-rigger and clipper 
ship of Massachusetts Bay and Manhattan Island no longer 
"Round the Horn" and have given way to fleets of modern 
turbine Leviathans. 

We vision the slight figure of the pioneer, now sitting silently on 
his horse or standing thoughtfully beside his ox cart. His journey 
is done, but his eyes are turned toward the light still farther 
West. Whether he came as explorer, missionary, rancher, cow- 
boy, hunter, trader, teacher, artisan or intellectual, through his 
far-seeing vision, intrepid faith, undaunted courage and positive 
character he has handed to us, the Nation, this Territory of the 
Northwest, so vast, so packed with riches, so girded with high- 
ways of trade, so filled with chosen peoples that it staggers the 
imagination. The pioneer of the Old West has left us indeed a 
vast heritage — but also a vast responsibility. 

The new West is the high school of an advancing democ- 
racy. It is the geographic position from which we obtain our 
moral, religious, and psychological viewpoint of Asia. Hawaii 
is the key to the Pacific ; the Philippine group is the doorway to 
Asia; China, India, Japan and their Islands of the sea have 
turned their faces usward, and have set their feet on our shores. 
We have already entered the gates of the Oldest World — the 
Orient ; our destiny is Pacificward. 

The Northwest is still a giant in its needs, but also in its pos- 
sibilities. Puget Sound is two steamer days nearer China than 
San Francisco because of the curvature of the earth and five hun- 
dred miles nearer Chicago by rail. Puget Sound is destined to 
be the Great American Gateway to the Far East, for trade like 
water takes the channel of least resistance. Portland by canal 
connection and harbor developments should form an integral 
part of this great outlet of the resources of the Northwest and 
beyond. Providence has placed the Northwest geographically in 
the Zone of World Power. 




By Charles Wellington Furlong 

A Pioneer of the Old West 




Type of the Manhood and Womanhood of the Range 



TYPES OF THE MANHOOD AND WOMANHOOD 
OF THE RANGE 

The buckaroo is a cowboy who can ride — and then some. No 
pair of contestants on the Round-Up lists stand out more definitely 
as strong types of the range or played the all-round game longer 
or with a better spirit than the late Dell Blancett and his wife 
Bertha Blancett, who has now retired from the contests._ 

They had competed in the Round-Up since its inception until 
we entered the world war. But we didn't move fast enough in 
that contest for Dell, so he joined the Canadian Cavalry in the 
great war for civilization and now lies vwith the other heroes 
under the poppies of Flanders Fields. 

The American range man and the range woman, designated by 
that picturesque title "cowboy" and "cowgirl" have no prototype, 
any more than has that great, epic, pioneer movement which re- 
sulted in the settling of the West. That West bore and bred in 
the cowboy type, a character, a point of view and a soul with a 
timbre quite his own. 

His lonely life in the old days on the plains, when he had 
often only his herd to sing to or only the coyotes to sing to him, 
made him contemplative, introspective, strikingly individualistic, 
at times a bit triste and occasionally a bit "onery." Normally 
he is quiet, generous, courageous, conservative, exceptionally mod- 
est, loyal in his friendships and with a keen original sense of 
humor, yet he is capable of great recklessness and daring and 
not a man to trifle with. 

He is a son of contrasts — in the day under a blistering burnmg 
sun, at night under the cold bite of darkness; — a full belly one 
week, a flat belly the next, monotonous days suddenly turned to 
hours of utmost excitement; long vigils under these conditions 
generally far from the centers of population, broken only by the 
seldom occasions in town often with a wild let-loose of repres- 
sion. Most of his similes, adages and comparisons in life are 
distinctive and local in color, taken from the life he lives and 
its environment. He has an inherent deep-lying chivalry, but 
while he'll ride fifty miles each way in the saddle to spend a few 
formal hours with a pretty girl, he'll ride two hundred to run 
down a horse thief. 

We were ridin' along homev/ard one night below the lowest 
river bench in the Madison Valley — "Scuttle," my pal Rob Swan 
and I, chapps to chapps, you knoW the feel. I had seen Scuttle 
shoot pieces of broken glass no bigger than a nickel and then pul- 
verize the smaller bits with a "twenty-two" against the twilight 
that evening. Now the moon was half-set and a thin mist hung 
in the valley bottom. 

The Whitney outfit had been operating up from the Jackson 
Hole Country, ten thousand reward had been offered and they 
were now reported hereabouts. What's the chances I asked 
Scuttle of the sheriff's posse getting them. 

"Well mebbee they will, but more'n likely they Won't.' 

We jogged along for sometime the only sound the soft putter 
of hoofs, the retch of saddle leathers and rub of chapps, then 
Scuttle broke the silence. 

"Say pard, d'ye know I've been thinkin' about them sassins — 
they ain't men, 'sassins what I call 'em, and d'ye know, that 
mor'n likely the feller what gits 'em meb'U be some ord'nary 
kind'er cuss, just like me." 



LET 'ER BUCK 

linger, and others is shown. In it men of the cow-camp 
and from many of the remote Oregon towns play their 
part in such a natural way, that you in the bleachers 
forget you are sitting on the soft side of a board. 
Here ranger, Indian fighter, cowboy, and sheriff are off 
duty, but hotel proprietor, barkeeper, and John China- 
man are decidedly on. It is a drama in which many 
of these players are in reality the characters they por- 
tray. Not even a rehearsal is held. The "boys" are 
simply told what is expected of them and when they 
are to do it. The stage coach dashes careening in from 
a hold-up, the town is shot to pieces by outlaws. Then 
Indians creep stealthily in while Happy Canyon sleeps 
and attack in the early morning hours, as in the days 
when the Snakes and Bannocks went on the warpath 
and stole in on the settlers hereabouts forty years ago. 

One of the most dramatic climaxes in the old life of 
the red man of this continent will probably be that re- 
markable scene witnessed by the vabt throng in Happy 
Canyon the fall after the Armistice. It was known 
among old settlers and others here in Pendleton that 
some of the Indians still possessed scalps which, how- 
ever, they kept carefully concealed from the eyes of the 
paleface. No persuasion would induce these sons of 
the forests and plains to produce them. 

Suddenly just before the 1919 Round-Up the Indian 
interpreter, Leo Sampson, came to Roy Raley, the 
director and organizer of Happy Canyon. He said 
that the head man, a sort of sub-chief, Jim Bad Roads, 
had sent him to speak on behalf of the Indians. Many 
of their young bucks, he said, had joined the army and 
gone overseas and had helped in the defeat of the 
enemy. His people, particularly the old people, wanted 
to dance their Victory Dance in honor of their victor- 
ies 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

ious warriors and their dead. If then, the program 
of Happy Canyon could be arranged for this, they 
would like to give this dance there and as scalps were 
a ceremonial symbol used in this dance, they agreed 
for the first time to bring out their scalps. 

The dance was a never-to-be-forgotten one. The 
Amerinds were marvelously attired and painted in 
special war victory symbols— unusual trappings of 
which no white man understood the significance or 
nature. Very old warriors and old gray-haired women 
came, and half blind, took part— who had never par- 
ticipated in the other Amerindian ceremonials at the 
Round-Up before. There, too, were the scalps, symbols 
of conquest over an enemy, carried on the staffs called 
cou sticks. In the course of the ceremony, when an 
Indian representing the dead enemy was brought 
down the mountain side to the camp ceremony, the 
old squaws gave vent to the pent-up fierceness. It was 
like one last, wild, exulting cry of the imprisoned heart- 
burnings from the remnant left of a stoical, courage- 
ous, repressed generation, the last flickering of the 
spirit of the old-time Indian before the flame goes out. 
And in those weird cries of victor over vanquished, 
to those who witnessed and listened, was brought home 
the full significance of why 

"When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons 

and Choctaw s, 
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of 

the squaws; 
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those 

stark enthusiasts pale. 
For the female of the species is more deadly than the 

male." 

109 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Interestingly enough, I have observed this same 
practice by the women of the southernmost Amerinds 
of the Yahgan tribe of the regions of Cape Horn, but 
it was in the case of a hve enemy Indian or one who 
had committed a crime against the tribe, until they 
beat him either into unconsciousness or to death. 

It was a peculiarly striking testimony that the Indian 
hereabouts not only regards The Round-Up as his 
carnival, but considers it a true celebration of the red 
man. So, too, was it fitting that here should occur 
probably the last Victory Dance of the aboriginal 
American, in actual tribute to their fallen as well as 
their victorious warriors over a defeated paleface foe. 

"Whoopee ! Wow ! Wow !" emanates from the open 
space — yes, and from the bleachers, too, and with a 
rattling fusillade of gun-play the show is on. You see 
bad men and vigilantes come riding into town ; the bar- 
room has its shooting scrape, and cowboy and cowgirl 
gracefully reel through their dances on horseback and 
take part in ranch and town games of various kinds, 
but realism reaches its climax when a furious, long- 
horned Texas steer is turned loose in the town street. 

At the end of the "Street," the church building, 
is, as one of the arena hands put it, "where they 
kept that there wild steer." The brute had been con- 
fined in a strong pen during the day and by way of 
expressing his dissatisfaction, had hoofed a foot-deep 
hole six feet in diameter out of the entire center. He 
emerges from the corner behind the dummy church- 
front with head down and tail up, charging everything 
in sight. 

The scattered population of Happy Canyon became 
more scattered. The "caste" shin up the veranda 
poles of Stagger Inn, dive through the windows of the 

110 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

Chinese laundry, dodge up the alley by the blacksmith 
shop, and now enter the doors of the lady milliner. 
Up the alley follows the steer; out of another alley 
pours the crowd. Buckskin-clothed scouts, cowboys, 
fringe-skirted cowgirls and whiskery old-timers peek 
round corners, from behind barrels, and from windows 
and doorways. Slam go doors, and furtive faces dis- 
appear again, surging in the opposite direction as the 
bovine reappears and changes his course. 

One old-timer, minding his own business, is comfort- 
ably seated smoking his piece of pipe in peace, on the 
veranda of the Inn, entirely unconscious of the steer's 
debut, is picked up bodily, chair and all. Fortunately 
the steer reaches low enough to catch the chair first, 
depositing the occupant some yards away. He runs 
like a hothead while the steer, with the chair dangling 
by the rungs on one horn, puts after him. A steer is 
no respecter of persons, and I have come to the conclu- 
sion has no conscience. 

Great Scott he's following his victim into the big, 
empty dance hall. Crash! he's through the partly 
opened door, and is putting on by himself one of the 
fastest "grizzliest shimmy-bear" effects ever seen in 
Pendleton — as graceful as a hog on ice — for you see 
by his reflection the floor was waxed to a finish. It 
was all funny enough Rattlesnake Bill said to make a 
jackrabbit jump in the air and spit in the face of a bull- 
dog. At last he's back in "Main Street" where the feel 
of terra firma seemed but to increase the virility and 
fighting vim of this "onery beef-critter." 

This steer was apparently not chosen for his lamb- 
like qualities, but rather because he had been taken 
from the Round-Up herd of wild Laredo steers, and 
sold for butcher meat on account of his proclivity to 

111 



LET 'ER BUCK 

gore horses in the arena. So they thought he was good 
enough — or bad enough — for a Happy Canyon steer 
fight. 

As toreadors, well-known cowboys who had won 
championships in the arena, entered this fight in which 
the odds are all against them and in favor of the steer, 
as nothing is done to hurt the steer while the only pro- 
tection of each is a large square of red cloth, called a 
scrape. There they are Dell Blancett, Ben Corbett, 
Otto Kline, Bufifalo Vernon and a tenderfoot. 

See they are on foot, armed only with those small 
red cloths, but willing to take a chance, and now put 
on a bull-fight which for daring is worthy of Spain's 
most intrepid toreadors. By this time the steer is 
"plumb cultus" and the bleachers now find no fault 
with the heavy screen of wire fencing which separates 
them from the arena. 

It is a game which requires head, surefootedness, 
and a bit of foolhardy courage thrown in, to play fast 
and loose with the five-foot spread of stiletto horns 
and the sharp hoofs of an eleven hundred pound steer. 

Buffalo Vernon makes a daring leap and seizes the 
steer's horns, a dangerous act on foot, — proceeds there 
and now to bulldog the heavy brute. But the steer is 
stronger-necked than he counts on. He loses his foot- 
ing and is in danger of being gored but the tenderfoot 
of the quartette of toreadors comes to his rescue. The 
other evening his rescuer essayed the same feat, but 
after a ten-minute struggle in which the enraged, 
horned beast sought to crush him time and again 
against the fence posts, he in turn was released by the 
rest of the outfit. 

This would-be bulldogger afterward said that when 
he had seized the horns of the steer and could not let 

112 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

go, he remembered he had a broken bone in his band- 
aged right wrist, having been thrown the afternoon be- 
fore from Sharkey the bull. 

Time and again the cowboy toreadors seem to escape 
the mad charges by a hair's breadth, making skilful 
use of the red scrapes which flipped and snapped in 
the melee. Rip 1 the tenderfoot is caught on a horn 
and tossed aside; but it was only the chamois skin of 
his jerkin and not his own hide which is torn. Each 
is ever ready to attract the steer from or go to the 
help of a comrade when necessary. 

Charging, the beast heads for a retreating cowboy, 
who springs suddenly to one side amongst the scant- 
lings of the bleachers. The steer plunges on and sud- 
denly is lost to view in the dark corner where the 
bleachers join the eastern end of the town. You can 
hear the clatter of hoofs on boards even above the din 
of spectators but only the two toreadors nearest in his 
wake disappear after him at increased speed. 

The previous number on the program you recall was 
a beautiful, dramatic spectacle of a dance of mountain 
nymphs in the hill scenery above the town, staged by 
a bevy of pretty Pendleton girls. The two cowboys 
know that these young women are about to shift their 
scenery in the dressing room for something more sub- 
stantial; they know only too well that the board walk 
terminates in this room beneath the bleachers toward 
which the steer is heading. 

Their worst fears are realized, for the steer does 
not stop to knock. Into the room, of none too ample 
dimensions, in the midst of Diana and her maidens, 
he bolts. For a moment clothes, draperies, chairs and 
tables are brought into play in a swirl of which the 
steer is the vortex. Some courageously wield the 

8 113 



LET 'ER BUCK 

chairs, but for most of them a mouse has nothing on 
that steer. 

But the two cowboys followed close, one bulldogging 
him to starboard and the other throwing his stern 
hard a-port, using his tail as a tiller, and guiding 
the plunging, rampant beast out of the door, escort him 
back from his rude intrusion into the boudoir of the 
ladies. Thus ends a number not listed on the pro- 
gram — The Bull in the China Doll Shop. 

A little bewildered, the angry brute now takes his 
position in the middle of the ring. He paws the earth 
and shakes his lowered head threateningly and utters 
an occasional warning moan. In a semicircle the four 
contestants radius him. There is one "boy" directly in 
front. It was his move. The steer didn't, so he must. 

From a scant twenty-live feet away, steadily, stealth- 
ily, never taking his eyes from those of the steer, he 
moves forward step by step — and at each step willing 
to give his horsehair braid, or even his new sombrero, 
if that steer would move while there was still time to 
dodge. The distance is shortening, he is now but ten 
feet to the lowered head. 

"Look out ! You won't be able to get outside those 
horns," cautioned Dell Blancett. 

A strange fascination draws him on. Five more 
feet are cut down. Still the big brute paws the earth 
but does not charge. 

"You've hypnotized him," comes from a seat in the 
bleachers. 

A thought, as thoughts will, flits across the ap- 
proacher's mind. Can he close in quickly enough to 
seize the steer's horns, and bulldog him before the 
charge and beat the steer to it ? But something quick- 
er than mere visual perception even, that telepathic 

114 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

sixth sense, registered the thought in the mind of Blan- 
cett. 

"You won't make it. Don't try," he remarks in a 
low, even tone. 

The position was tense. To step back now would 
invite a sudden onrush while he is not in a position to 
make a getaway. There is little chance by jumping to 
one side of eluding that spread of horns, which seem 
even from where he stands to half encircle him. A 
thought comes. He had always heard a bull or steer 
did not attack an inanimate body and men had saved 
themselves by lying prone and still. The experiment 
is worth trying. The nearer the steer when a man is 
safely prone, the less chance of the steer getting his 
head low and of the man being horned. Slowly, with 
even movements, with eye ever on that of the animal, 
instead of holding the serape square out as a screen, 
retaining one corner in his left hand, for he was a 
southpaw, he worked his right out arm's length behind 
him to the opposite diagonal corner. 

Snap! The serape slaps forward square between 
the eyes of the longhorn who simultaneously shoots 
forward like a bolt from a gun ; but the man is quicker 
and has dropped flat on the ground, not a bit too flat 
for the vicious side sweep, — one horn barking a four- 
inch souvenir of the pleasant occasion from his right 
shoulder. 

The steer hurdles the prostrate form. All is quiet ; 
even the spectators are still. There is the slightest 
move of the head of the prone figure as he cocks an 
eye to starboard to see the cause of the dead calm. But 
it is not too slight for the steer. 

Whang! he again barely misses his antagonist's 
head. The recipient of this moon-dance and partici- 

115 



LET 'ER BUCK 

pant in this fool stunt, afterwards remarks, when 
Elmer Storie rubbing horse liniment on his bruises 
asked how the steer felt on him; "I thought he was a 
stone age centipede doing a four-step." 

The public now have the coveted opportunity to pour 
through the gaps of this same wire fence and stroll 
through Happy Canyon. 

"WELCOME STRANGER HOP TO IT," 

one sign invites. 

You may enter its shacks and stores — yes, and 
saloons, too, if you are content with soft drinks. 
Your next move is made clear — "PROMENADE 
ALL TO THE BAR." When you get there whether 
you believe in signs or not, "COME ON KID. BUY 
YOUR LIZZIE A DRINK— SHE AINT A 
CAMMEL." In fact you may buy anything under 
the sun with Happy Canyon ten-buck notes, which it 
is absolutely necessary to provide yourself with before 
entering, at the rate of ten cents per of Uncle Sam's 
legal tender. 

One may enter the front door of Stagger Inn and 
stagger out the back door, but stagger in a right and 
decorous way if you expect to get by the sheriff and 
his deputies into the great dance hall with its superb 
floor. There you may go, and to the music of the 
splendid Round-Up band "DANCE YOUR FOOL 
HEAD OFF," as that sign over the entrance suggests. 
"ONLY REFINED DANCING ALOUD," you are 
warned ; and the management advises you frankly, 
"WE WANT NO BLUD OR TOBAKO JUCE 
SPILT IN HEAR." 

If you are not au fait on the finer points of ballroom 
etiquette a way out is plainly indicated — "GENTS 
WILL KINDLY SPIT OUT THE WINDOW— 

116 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

WE USE WAX." So the life of Llappy Canyon is 
brimful to overflowing with excitement and the atmos- 
phere of the old frontier days. There is enough fun 
for all. So stay with the bunch and "DONT AKT 
LIKE YOU WUZ THE ONLY BRONK IN THE 
CORRAL." 

The night life is not the least interesting of the many 
Round-Up attractions, and nowhere can it be seen as 
well as entered into better than on and ofif Main 
Street where the milling of the night herd centers. 
Here you rub elbows with old-timers and strangers, 
bankers and cowboys, business men and ranchers, 
preachers and Indians, doctors and ranch hands, 
judges and sheepherders. 

You can turn with any bunch of strays into the 
dance halls, shooting galleries, restaurants, movies or 
the cowboy theater; or you can follow the trail of 
tobacco juice to the principal hangouts of some of the 
buckaroos. The poolrooms are all full, almost as full 
as they were in the days of bars and "sunshine." 

Here a bunch of the cowboys line the curb and win- 
dow sill outside one of their main resorts. Let's go 
in. Never mind that quartette at the little game in the 
corner. It may be seven-up, California Jack or solo; 
but more likely the brand is poker. 

"What's the verdant wad that feller's pulling from 
his chapps, big enough to choke a cow?" 

"Oh 1 I reckon that's a plug of chewin'," says Red 
Parker, with fingers crossed. 

"Come over. Furlong, park in here. There's room 
for your friend, too — move over there, Jock." 

We work our way through chairs to a corner table 
about which is a bunch of my old Pendleton cronies, 
Jimmie and Cress Sturgis, Elmer Storie, Merle Chess- 

117 



LET 'ER BUCK 

man, Guy Wyrick, Brook Dickson, R. Chloupek, Ly- 
man Rice and George Strand. They had rounded up 
"Jock" Coleman and song was rife. 

"What ! You don't know Jock — that well knit, good 
looking laddie with a brogue as refreshing as the scent 
of heather?" In his early days as a lad he had "sailed 
it" on windjammers along the Highland coasts, but 
came out from bonnie Scotland to the West in 1906 
to go into the steel business as a steelworker, but, as 
he put it, only found bronchos and sagebrush. He 
cowboyed it, ranched it, then his inherent highland 
humor and love of music saw him in vaudeville, where 
through his original compositions and inimitable im- 
personations he was termed the Harry Lauder of 
America; then back to ranching, in charge of a big 
combine crew, and now he's railroading it — happy-go- 
lucky, good-natured Jock, the best sort and a prime 
favorite with all. In the minds of many, Jock's rich, 
Scotch baritone should have made its impress on 
many a gold disc record along with McCormack and 
others. 

It was in this same hall that one night I sat in this 
corner quietly alone, unobserved, and just as tonight 
I listened and looked out on the same scene. You 
know the sounds when a herd like that gets to milling 
in a roofed-in corral — the murmuring drone of men's 
voices, the occasional outstanding ejaculation, flavor- 
ed with poetic vernacular or spiced with occasional un- 
camouflaged profanity. Then the expectoration pause 
before the expectant remark, the deep-toned, shake and 
rattle of the leather cup and the softened rattle of the 
edge-worn bones. A bit crude, yes. But only a primi- 
tive shellac, which seems to bring out even more clearly 
those splendid, fundamental, inherent qualities which 

118 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

one has often to scratch much deeper to find beneath 
the veneer of a more efifete order. 

The Hght fihers its golden way through the half- 
wafting fog of tobacco smoke onto the great baize 
tables sprinkled with their ivories like drops of a rain- 
bow on a lawn of green ; upon forward tilted sombre- 
ros with a cockeyed slant shading keen eyes, deep set 
in shadowed sockets; upon the sheen of colored shirt 
as the strong figures reach in their play with the cue, 
their clean-cut faces chiseled by a life and work in 
which they ask of nature no compromise. All is a great 
delicious, impressionistic splash of color on a canvas 
soon to be grayed with that dull mediocrity we call 
civilization. 

The smoke grew thicker, the background turned to 
a dark nothingness, the murmur of men's voices merged 
with it and only the shirted, chapped, sombreroed fig- 
ures moved across my vision. The lights were the 
lights of campfires, the shadows on the men's faces 
those cast by them, and time filmed backward a space 
of years. I saw the western plainsmen on the great 
stage of their calling. Perhaps no type of men or call- 
ing have ridden into publicity and the interest of people 
of all countries more completely than the vaquero and 
particularly the vaquero of our western plains — the 
cowboy. No vocation is so constantly spiced with ro- 
mance, adventure, fight and fun as that of the cow- 
boy — those elements which make an inherent appeal 
to mankind. 

Nor is any "getup" used in practical everyday work 
more picturesque than the broad-hatted, chapped, care- 
free, spur-jingling one of the American cowboy. One 
of its charms lies in the fact that it is worn for business 
and not for effect, and you know it. Look about this 

119 



LET 'ER BUCK 

crowd now with the added color of his best "harness," 
which he sometimes "sHcks up" with for a Saturday 
night in town, but more particularly as you see him 
now during the Round-Up. 

Perhaps, too, no phase of calling and type of man so 
much in the limelight of the world is quite so little 
really known and appreciated. Its very picturesque- 
ness has thrown an eclat and a veil over the popular 
vision and hidden not only many of the cowboy's true, 
manly, and generous qualities, but has perhaps ob- 
scured the value of his service to civilization, which 
by the great majority is scarcely thought of. It was the 
cowboy who was often the first discoverer of "some- 
thing lost behind the ranges"; who first "entered on 
the find" ; whose pony was the first to lead "down the 
hostile mountains where the hair-poised snow-slide 
shivered, and through the big fat marshes that the vir- 
gin ore-bed stains." His ears were often the first to 
hear the "mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers" ; 
his eyes the first to see beyond "nameless timber the 
illimitable plains." He has often been not only the 
forerunner, but the pioneer over wide regions now 
dotted with towns and cities, rivers hemmed with 
water frontage, throbbing with industries and dammed 
for "plants to feed a people." He may well say in the 
words of The Explorer, of the clever chaps that fol- 
lowed him that they 

"Tracked me by the camps I'd quitted, 
Used the water holes Fd hollowed. 
They'll go back and do the talking. 
They'll be called the pioneers." 

Who is the cowboy and where does he come from? 
Why, the cowboy fundamentally is the son of the pio- 

120 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

neer, for often the rancher in the old days was the 
range master; the cowboy is not an imported product, 
but was born and brought up in the Old West and was 
the West's firstborn. Many newcomers from all 
nations and callings of an adventurous or elemental 
nature hired on as cowherds, and after serving their 
apprenticeship, were enrolled in the ranks of the cow- 
boy. The romance of this life made a particular ap- 
peal to the men of red blood who realized the danger 
of sedentary occupations and the stupidity of sitting 
two-thirds of one's life on the end of one's spine, to 
the man who loved nature, to the laboring man re- 
stricted by overcrowding in his trade in his old world ; 
even to the man of culture, of whom perhaps no one 
section of the country, except possibly the old South, 
has contributed more recruits than New England, 
which also sent out the early explorers and a large por- 
tion of the pioneers. Even today the most popular 
pictures on the walls of many a school and college boy 
of the East are those of Frederic Remington and 
Charlie Russell, our two greatest painter historians of 
the West. 

Banded together the cowboys have dispensed wild 
justice to many outlaws. There occurred sometimes 
the inevitable war over property between ranch and 
ranch, and the stockmen's wars between sheepmen and 
cattlemen. But the cowboys have essentially stood for 
the protection of law and property in a territory where 
the only writ that ran was that signed by the strong 
hand. Their fight against thieves has been a good 
fight, especially against horse thieves, the arch crimi- 
nals in a new country where everybody must ride. 

A part of the day's work may be dragging a steer 
out of quicksand and then dodging the grateful beast 

121 



LET 'ER BUCK 

to save being gored; to ford a freshet-swollen river; 
to struggle through a blizzard, while cow-punching in 
a stampede is not play for a floorwalker. 

Such work demands not only a perfect presence of 
mind but a perfect co-ordination of mind and action. 
The picture of the cowboy as he is portrayed in his 
reckless moments when he crazily careens a-whooping 
and a-shooting through the town when he rides his 
horses into saloons, or at the times of his gross merry- 
making is a distorted one ; and you are likely to for- 
get in the whoop, the gun-play and the curse, the fringe 
and the jingle, how much hard work, often under most 
difficult conditions, he is doing. The cowboy, while 
a type and adhering to his clan, is a marked individu- 
alist, and anyone who knows and loves the open and 
the great range of freedom, knows that the men who 
live in those great expanses of life, who often must 
be a law unto themselves, who carry dangerous weap- 
ons and know that their associates carry them, are 
usually self-contained and courteous. The cowboy is 
of a keen-thinking, clear-eyed and resolute clan, far 
from quarrelsome, but sudden in a fight, though not 
seeking it, and doubly quick on the draw. This is the 
true son of the plains, if you eliminate some recent 
hands who have stepped into his chapps and think that 
so doing and jamming on a Stetson, and looking tough 
makes a cowboy. The cowboy is honest, hard-work- 
ing, truthful and full of resource — and of course brave, 
not merely in action but in endurance. 

It was logical that when the railroads brought beef- 
cattle on the hoof to be shipped to Europe by way of 
the great cattle boats, Boston should become the great 
port of export and center of this trade. By reason of 
its great shoe and textile industries it had a very direct 

122 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

and vital connection with the cattle and sheep indus- 
try of the West. 

The life on these cattle boats with their congested, 
seasick, stench-reeking, bellowing, bovine cargo and 
the dangerous work of cleaning out, bedding down, 
tending, feeding, watering, and removing carcasses of 
cattle that had died on the voyage — often in a heavy 
seaway and storm — naturally did not appeal to the 
landsman of the western interior. Besides the few at- 
tendant cowhands, who had come as far as the Chica- 
go stockyards, most of them had hit the trail back 
West. So the stevedores were generally picked up 
somewhere along that attractive mudhole, Atlantic 
Avenue. 

The red-blooded youths whose homes were on or 
near the stern and rock-bound coast of Massachusetts, 
many of them descendants of the hardy Yankee skip- 
pers or the seafaring folk of the North and South 
Shores and "The Cape," shipped on Gloucester and 
Boston fishermen for the dangerous cruising on the 
"Georges" and Grand Banks, They were the progeny 
of those sailormen who taught Britain on the sea in 
1812, and the Dey of Algiers in 1815 to respect the 
American marine; whose clipper ships outsailed the 
craft of every nation, flinging our flag from their mast- 
heads in every port of the globe, and whose clumsy 
whalers out of the ports from Cape Cod to Cape Ann 
outsailed and out-whaled the combined whaling fleets 
of the world. It is not to be wondered at that the 
Massachusetts school and college lad with such a heri- 
tage chose during his summer vacation to take his 
Odyssey as nursemaid to a lot of wild, seasick, long- 
horned steers, and all for only his keep on the way over 
with a five-dollar bill on arrival and a free passage back. 

123 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Many of these youngsters doubtless met up with 
some old hands, and were initiated into an interest in 
the West. Thus the ancestral urge of adventure 
strengthened the trade relationship of industrial Mas- 
sachusetts with the agricultural West, which began 
when Captain Gray sailed out of Boston harbor to 
trade a chisel for otter skins with the Indians on the 
Columbia. So we see an unbroken and very close re- 
lationship between Massachusetts and the Northwest 
and between her sons and those of Washington and 
Oregon. 

There was a time but a few years ago when the call 
of the wild made such an appeal to many of the East- 
ern college men that cow-punching became almost a 
mania. There was almost an epidemic of reversion 
to type. Cultivated youth, fascinated by the free open 
life of the far West, obeyed Horace Greeley's injunc- 
tion and went there. If he was not too much of a 
"dude," he survived his dancing lessons to the tune 
of a six-shooter, his saddle soreness, chuckwagon 
dodgers, wet, cold, heat, isolation, deserts, swollen tor- 
rents, swollen lips, sometimes swollen eyes, horns, 
hoofs, rope-burns and rattlesnakes, and became a man. 

Many of these Easterners assimilated rapidly the 
contagious life and spirit of the West, for after all 
they had only skipped a generation — it's only one gen- 
eration from shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves. They contrib- 
uted to the West the culture and breadth of viewpoint 
which this reciprocal intermingling helped to create, 
emancipating the West from many prejudices and 
localisms and helped to bring about that superb bal- 
ance which characterizes the average Westerner of to- 
day. 

From the intermingling of these types, particularly 
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

in Colorado, a curious and delightful society arose. 
The ranchman was "only a cowboy in chief. ... In 
particular it was noticed in El Paso and Denver in the 
most high and palmy state of the cattle business that 
cow-punching was a sure recipe for reducing the Bos- 
tonian morgue." In fact there are many delightful and 
social colonies of ranchers composed in greater part 
of Eastern college and educated men and their families 
who have formed delightful communities, as for in- 
stance, the famous fruit region of Hood River Valley 
where they have a better University Club than in many 
a large city. Thus the call of the West of yesterday 
echoes into today and will re-echo into tomorrow ; and 
the call will be answered. 

But I forget — this is not "the other night" and I'm 
not sitting in this corner alone. The figures I see in 
the smoke are not phantoms of the campfires or sil- 
houettes against the horizons of time, but real, honest- 
to-God plainsmen and ranchmen of now on the real 
stage of their today. 

The murmur of men's talk about me has softened — 
vibrated away into almost a node of silence, only a 
single voice, a voice you feel has breathed the fullness 
of great distances, chronicles an episode in the life of 
the buckaroo 

The band it plays. 

And a cowboy sways 
On the back of a bucking horse. 

He looks around. 

Then he hits the ground, 
But the bucker keeps his course. 

Thundering applause shakes the whole structure. 
The reason ? Why, Tracy Lane, the cowboy poet laur- 

125 



LET 'ER BUCK 

eate of the Round-Up, has just "busted" into verse 
about the show. Tracy not only has written some 
western verse, but is also one of the best horse-gent- 
lers in the country. He does wonderful things with 
horses — teaching riding-horses in particular, their 
numerous gaits and many other things. 

"Give us The Old Cowhand's Wish, Tracy." 
Tracy spits, shifts a bit and wipes his hand across 
his mouth. 

"All right, fellers, here's hoppin' to it," he spits 
again — "Well, boys, I'll throw you somethin' that I 
wrote after a spell back East a-gentling some 'dude' 
horses. It kinder expresses my sentiments better'n I 
can talk 'em myself and I guess it kinder expresses 
yourn." 



Gee, but I am growing weary of the city and its glare; 
Weary of the blocks and blocks of crowded street and 

square, 
Weary of the noises, of autos and of cars; 
I sometimes wish that I could fly upward to the stars. 

I am longing for the prairies, where I rode so long ago, 
Longing for the springtime, longing for the snow. 
Wishing I was punching cattle on that horse I used to 

ride; 
The one I always was so proud of, the one that always 

bucked and shied. 

He was a bay and rather rangy, and he sure could kick 

and snort, 
And every morning when I'd mount him, he and I would 

have some sport. 
But after we had had our battle, and his bucking it was 

done, 
He'd be as nice as any horse that ever lived beneath the 

sun. 

126 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

I broke him with a hackamore, and he sure did know the 

rein, 
And I could rope and tie a critter, in the hills or on the 

plain, 
And no matter how he'd paw, how he'd bawl or how he'd 

fight. 
This horse he'd stand and hold him, and he'd keep that 

rawhide tight. 

Then we used to drive the beef herd, to the railroad far 

away 
Then we used to ride for slick-ears, and we'd ride both 

night and day, 
And we took in all the dances, we would go for many a 

mile. 
Just to swing some pretty maiden, hear her talk, and see 

her smile. 

But alas! the range is ended, for the settlers they came 

west, 
They brought hammers and barbed wire; well, I think 

you know the rest. 
They run the cowboys from the ranges, chased us to the 

hills and town. 
And they run me to the city, the damnedest place I've ever 

found. 

So now I'm old, I'm feeble; soon I'll make another change, 
And wherever I do go, I hope I'll find a bunchgrass range, 
I hope I'll meet all those old cowhands, the cowhands that 

I used to know 
When I rode the Western ranges, over forty years ago. 

When the crowd gets through hoUooing and stamp- 
ing and Tracy modestly rustles his seat, some one 
bellows, 

"Jock Coleman — Where's Jock? Oh, there you are, 
Scottie. Come on with one of your kiltie songs, Jock," 
and the well-knit, smiling Jock is pushed to the front. 

127 



LET 'ER BUCK 

There is a hush. The card games ceased as Jock's 
melodious voice breaks into the Highland pathos of 
Annie Laurie and Highland Mary. Even the clicking 
at the pool tables stops. Perhaps it was the under- 
standing which comes from familiarity with the knocks 
and nuances of life that enriched the remarkable 
quality of his voice, which could cause a smile to spread 
over the visages, or a wet glint to glisten in the eyes 
of the roughest-cut diamond of any crowd. 

Round after round of applause showed there was 
no sitting down for the singer ; so it was "I hate ter-r-r 
get-tup in the mor-r-rnin','' "I love a lassie," and so on, 
until an old skinner of a combine crew and a bunch 
of ranch-hands called for the song they had heard 
Jock had composed about working on the big 
combine. 

"Well, y' see, fellers, I'll tell y' how I came ter-r 
write this wee bit song. Y' see last year-r I was on 
the big MacDonald Ranch near Pilot Rock wor-r-king 
as header-r puncher-r, and for th' benefit o' th' tender- 
foots in the crowd I'll go a wee bit into detail — and I 
have nae doot they'll understand the meanin' o' the 
song better-r, 

"Saturday nights the wheat r-ranchers would gi' a 
party fer-r th' harvester-rs and most o' th' hands 
would round up at some ranch hoose. Weel, at one 
o' these someone suggested that as I had written a 
Roond-Up song, why not one on th' big combine, per- 
haps the most important and certainly the most strikin' 
featur-re on a wheat ranch today — the big combine 
which mows, winnows, thr-reshes and sacks up the 
wheat — does what it used to take a hundr-rud 
men and as many horses to do, and in half the 

time. 

128 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 

"Weel, some o' the boys remarked that I was sort 
o' quiet the next week, as though I was thinking aboot 
somethin' an' I was. Weel, I decided I'd just tell aboot 
the wor-rk while the great combine was a-r-rollin', and 
bring in the wor-rk of the four men which for-rm the 
crew and make it a bit o' a play on the character of each 
• — not fur-r-getting the horses, thir-r-ty-two o' them. 
You see, the crew is made up of the header-r punch- 
er-r, the separator-r puncher-r, the skinner-r-r and the 
sack sewer-r-r-r. Thaire was Oscar-r-r Nelson, — he 
sewed up the sacks. Oscar-r-r traveled a' la side 
door-r-r Pullman, a 'bo-socialist was Oscar-r-r and a 
Wobbly (I.W.W.) forby. He'd be happier-r-r in the 
jungles than in the Waldor-r-f Astor-r-ria. 

"Then thaire was Floyd Smith, a healthy wee lad 
frae the 'Valley.' He was the long-line skinner-r-r-r, 
although only eighteen he could drive thir-r-ty head — 
and he could eat like a bear-r-r-r. 

"Then there was meself header-r-puncher-r-r. I had 
to run the ootfit and tend the knives and had char-rge 
of the wheel that raises an' lower-r-s accor-r-ding to 
the height y' wish tae cut th' grain. So, I set my song 
tae th' tune o' Casey Jones, but said nothin' until I 
sprung it at the next big party. The combine crew 
wer-r-re all thaire. Some of you hae hear-r-d it I've 
nae doot, so y' can all jine in the chorus o' Working on 
the Big Combine. All right wi' the ivories thaire, 
Mister-r-r Pianer-r-puncher-r-r yer-r-r-r foot off the 
soft pedal and hit 'er-r har-r-r-rd." 

Now come, all you rounders, if you want to hear 
The story of a bunch of stiffs a-harvesting here. 
The greatest bunch of boys that ever came down the line, 
Is the harvest crew a-working on this big combine. 
» 129 



LET 'ER BUCK 

There's traveling men from Sweden in this good old 

crew, 
From Bonnie Scotland, Oregon and Canada, too ; 
I've listened to their twaddle for a month or more, 
I never met a bunch of stiffs like this before. 

"Come awa wi' the chorus lads — swing tae it!" 

Oh, you ought to see this bunch of harvest pippins 
You ought to see, they're surely something fine 

You ought to see this bunch of harvest pippins. 
This bunch of harvest pippins on this old combine. 

There's Oscar just from Sweden — he's as stout as a mule, 
Can jig and sew with any man or peddle the bull. 
He's an independent worker of the world as well. 
He loves the independence but he says the work is hell. 
He's got no use for millionaires and wants ter see 
Them blow up all the grafters in this land of liberty ; 
Swears he's goin' ter leave this world of graft and strife 
And stay down in the jungles with the stew-can all his 
life. 

"The chorus noo, hop to it." 

Oh! Casey Jones, he knew Oscar Nelson, 
Casey Jones, he knew Oscar fine ; 

Casey Jones, he knew Oscar Nelson, 
When he chased him off of boxcars on the S. P. line. 

Now the next one I'm to mention, — well, the next in line. 
Is the lad a-punching horses on this big combine 
The lad that tells the horses just what to do, 
But the things he tells the horses I can't tell you. 
It's Pete and Pat and Polly, you come out of the grain, 
And Buster, there you are again, you're over the chain, 
Limp and Dude and Lady, you get in and pull. 
And Paddy, you get over there, you damned old fool. 

130 



MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 
"Altogether-r-r, boys — noo." 

Oh ! you ought to see, you ought to see our skinner 

You ought to see, he's surely something fine; 

You ought to see, you ought to see our skinner, 
He's a winner at his dinner at this old combine. 

Now I'm the header-puncher, don't forget that's me 

I do more work, you bet, then all the other three, 
A-workin' my arms and a-workin' my feet, 
A-picking up the barley and the golden wheat, 
I got to push up the brake and turn on the wheel, 
I got to watch the sickle and the draper and the reel. 
And if I strike a badger hill and pull up a rock. 
They holler "Well, he's done it, the damn fool Jock." 

"Hop tae the chorus, cowboys — knock 'em dead!" 

Oh! I'm that guy, I'm the header-puncher, 
I'm that guy though it isn't in my line, 

I'm that guy — I'm the header-puncher 

I'm the header-puncher on this old combine. 

It was a remarkable portrayal of one of the by- 
phases of modern ranch life. It got under the skins 
of the crowd and a full five minutes elapsed before 
the applause died away. 

"Give us your Round-Up song, Jock, before this 'er 
corral puts up the bars for the night." 

"All r-r-right, boys — My Heart Goes Back to Dear 
Old Pendleton. Now, you fellers put some high-life 
into this chorus. Make it snappy Mister-r-r Piano- 
puncher-r-r; put a handle on it and tur-r-rn it." 

Now I've sailed the sea, I've seen gay Paree, 
I've seen the sights of old London. Though I'm far away, 
I never stray from that dear old town I was born in ; 

131 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Now once ev'ry year there's one town looks dear, 
Pendleton, you know the town ; 
My heart seems to cling, so that's why I sing 
Of Pendleton's Round- Up renown. 

We've fairs ev'rywhere, some good, some just fair, 
Some towns went broke when 'twas over. But there 

won't come a time 
That this town don't shine, when her people won't be in 

clover ; 
Her women are fair, her business men square. 
Good fellowship night and day; 
From the mayor to the cop, she's always on top, 
A hummer, a dinger, she's there. 



CHORUS 



For my heArl goes back to dear old Pendleton, That's the on- ly place for 




MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD 



Chey-enne, But take a lit - tie tip from me. For 




Pen-die - ton-Sep - tem-ber- Let 'er buck. That's the place for we. 




Only a small group hangs outside after the doors 
close and the lights go out, but the others scatter to 
their homes or hangouts — soon only an occasional 
song, a whoopee, a fusillade of shots, or a wild "Let 
'er buck" breaks the night stillness. The big little city 
sleeps on into the great tomorrow. 



133 



CHAPTER FIVE 

THE ROUND-UP 

Shortly after noon, if you do not want to walk and 
haven't a horse, take one of the gray, "bus-Hke jit- 
neys" and follow with that veritable human river — 
spectators and contestants — which flows on the open- 
ing day to the Round-Up Park. Like a gigantic herd 
on the drive, this vast mass of humanity streams 
through the gates and goes milling to their seats. Be- 
fore you the broad quarter mile track, defined from the 
centre arena by a low fence, lies empty and quiet. On 
either side the bleachers are packed to the utmost. Ex- 
pectancy can be sensed throughout the great amphi- 
theater, where everybody wears the glad-to-see-you, 
glad-to-be-here, "let 'er buck" smile. 

Across the arena behind a wire fence, a long phalanx 
of cowboys and Indians sit their horses as spectators 
or as waiting contestants. Beyond these, the pictur- 
esque tepees of the Umatillas snuggle in pyramids of 
white or color in the shadow of a soft green grove of 
cottonwoods suffused in the haze of Indian summer; 
and beyond, the low hills seem to meet a turquoise sky 
and drift lazily out to ranch and range. Near you the 
Portland Band and the famous Round-Up Mounted 
Cowboy Band, headed by Bob Fletcher, occupy the mo- 
ments with well-rendered "rags" and martial airs while 

134 



THE ROUND-UP 

thirty thousand people eagerly await the things which 
one reads and dreams about — the West stalking in the 
flesh. 

You will undoubtedly meet up with old friends but 
you are sure to see many people of note. There is 
Proctor the sculptor's family, in the third box from 
the center, and Anna Shannon Monroe, the authoress, 
is with them. Proctor, himself, is in the arena, — there 
with his sketch book getting material. In the next 
box with Dave Horn is another old six-line skinner, 

C. W. Barger, from 'Frisco, who has driven for Wells 
Fargo, Farlow & Sanderson and others. He began 
to handle the lines in 1874 and not only drove from 
La Grande through Pendleton to Umatilla, but has 
driven all over the Western country, through Eastern 
Oregon, Montana and from British Columbia to Ari- 
zona, winding up in the Yosemite sixteen years ago. 

The man in the dark, slouch hat with his arms on 
the rail, is Governor Olcott of Oregon, he is so in- 
terested he prefers standing in the pen with the timers. 

Of the many guests of note who journey to witness 
this great pageant none have expressed their enthusi- 
asm in a more concrete way than that man you see 
with a group of friends in the center box — that's Louis 

D. Hill of St. Paul. As long as he could not freight 
the whole show back home with him over the North- 
ern Pacific Lines, he invited the Round-Up Committee 
and nearly a half hundred other leading Pendletonians 
as guests of honor and to let-'er-buck at the great St. 
Paul mid-winter ice carnival. 

So next February with their wives, — those who had 
them — they rounded-up in the beautifuf Snow City 
in cowboy regalia. No visitors ever received a more 
royal welcome or were encouraged to take greater 

135 



LET 'ER BUCK 

freedom in any city. Among them was Bill Switzler 
and Glenn Bushee (Tall Pine) in his inimitable Indian- 
chief's costume, and few ever penetrated his disguise. 

When the horses Louis Hill provided were brought 
out, Wild Bill's keen eye focused a dotted line on one 
particular animal in the bunch with the bridle bit 

brand ^^ ^ ^ seared on its right stifle, and an 

Xon its right side — Bill's own brands. It was a 
long way from Horse Heaven Country, but 
only goes to show how small is the world of 
men and horses. 

Though snows have come and gone, St. Paul will 
long and pleasantly remember that Pendleton outfit; 
riding horses into elevators of the leading hotel, light- 
ly roping skilfully any pedestrian who crossed their 
path in the parade, small boy, dog or pretty girl pre- 
ferred — were some of the episodes in their whole- 
souled merrymaking. 

They had by no means reached the end of their rope, 
when they lassoed Jinks Taylor out of a barber chair 
and shaved the nigh half only, of his pet hirsutian ap- 
pendage from his upper lip, for they shortly discovered 
Wild Bill Switzler in a quiet corner having his fore- 
hoofs roached by a pretty manicurist — didn't even give 
him a chance to have the polish put on, or explain why 
he was going — Swish! and a dozen hands suddenly 
hauled him backwards and out of the door. 

Then there was that crowning episode of western 
chivalry, which Glenn Bushee staged on the Capitol 
steps. In the parade most of the Pendleton outfit had 
fair partners in their saddles, while they rode behind 
their cantles. A flight of Capitol steps meant nothing 
in the young lives of men used to chasing longhorns 
over rimrock, so up the steps they went. Suddenly 

136 



THE ROUND-UP 

on the icy granite a horse fell. Tall Pine in his Indian 
regalia went down. But the old arena instinct and his 
inherent western chivalry caused him to think first 
of his fair partner. Throwing himself, war bonnet, 
feather, trapping and all under her, Tall Pine lit flat 
on his back — she lit flat on his nose. 

So, many humorous incidents paved their way, not 
only in St. Paul, but on to New York, where the re- 
nowned hospitality of the Pendletonians, was only 
equalled by that of their gracious host. After a 
round-up of every entertainment the Cosmopolis of 
America could produce, they were willing to admit that 
New York compared favorably with Pendleton. 

Perhaps you recognize the man in that front seat 
talking to Merle Chessman of the East Oregonian, the 
one with a square set to his jaw, immaculately dressed, 
straw hat at a slight independent angle, and a red car- 
nation in his lapel, — that's Thomas W. Lawson of 
Boston. 

Tom Lawson, author, copper and stock-farm king 
with his five children has come here all the way from 
Egypt — Massachusetts. 

He's always positive in his opinions as well as his 
remarks, and you know by his manner he means it. 
"It's all best, grand, marvelous and all new — all Ameri- 
can, the greatest human entertainment shown on earth. 
Another thing that strikes me forcibly is the absence 
of what comes under the general head of brutality — 
I have never seen any physical contest less brutal than 
Pendleton's great human nature exhibition. It puts a 
glow into the minds of youth and nurtures the won- 
derful heritage our forefathers created for us." 

Well, he has not only expressed tersely your thought, 
but those of every normal human in this great epic. 

137 



LET 'ER BUCK 

But there are some, not without honor in their own 
country, occupying some of the humblest seats in the 
bleachers whom yon don't know. But as Rattlesnake 
Bill says, "Them strangers may be top-notch salubri- 
ties back from whar they hails from an' I've no doubts 
but they're corn fed on thar alleged brains. I never 
heard o' them before but I know a few salubrities 
right 'n town 'n likely's 'nuff right 'n these bleachers 
now — thar's 'Baldy Sours', he's a woodcutter — and 
sure kin wrangle an axe, thar's Harry McDonald, they 
sure rubbed soot in his Irish eyes, then thar's John 
Jigger, the well digger — everybody's heerd tell on 
'em, why " 

To the minute at 1 p. m. on each of the three days 
these contests for world's championships begin, — and 
almost to the minute at five they end. Roping, racing, 
and relays, by cowboys, Indians, and cowgirls; 
steer roping, maverick races, steer bulldogging; 
riding bucking horses, steers, bulls, buffaloes, and 
cows; stagecoach racing, Indian ceremonial and war 
dances, trick riding, mounted tug of war, the grand 
parade, and that wonderful finale, the wild horse race 
— and to any one not versed in the ways of the open 
West all of this is as instructive as it is entertaining. 

A glance convinces you that the men, women, horses 
and steers are the real thing, and the sport — an out- 
growth from the range — is genuine. It is the fastest 
fight and fun to be found, in which a gripping, fas- 
cinating life is enacted every moment. 

From grandstand to bleacher you will soon look out 
on the swing and swirl of movement of a great sun- 
flooded oval, framed by the rolling hills of Oregon, 
where meet the greatest roughriders of the globe, com- 
peting for world's championships on the worst outlaw 

138 



THE ROUND-UP 

horses, bucking bulls, and buffaloes; in roping wild 
steers, in bulldogging Texas longhorns, and in the 
various races — the cow-pony, relay, pony express, and 
stagecoach. 

The whole drama with its atmosphere and charac- 
ter gives the Round-Up its charm, and makes it pre- 
eminently the peer of all cowboy carnivals. This is 
the great magnetic force which draws a vast audience 
to Pendleton for three whole days of each year. 

Just before the opening of the program it is the 
custom for the President of the Round-Up Associa- 
tion to appear on the track riding the first prize saddle 
for the cowboy's bucking contest for the championship 
of the world. Perhaps no more striking figure was 
ever seen in the arena on this occasion than the late 
Sheriff Til Taylor. Many will recall Til when he 
rode in one year escorting Miss Jane Bernoudy, prob- 
ably the most popular fancy roper the Round-Up has 
ever seen. She was ensconced in the seat of the first 
saddle for the girl's bucking contest dressed in her 
well-cut pretty maroon-colored velvet suit and natty 
sombrero. 

Beneath the man's broad-brimmed Stetson you saw 
a face — strong in character as well as physique — 
square, but not heavy-jawed, eyes narrow, deep-set but 
smiling, a mouth with the kind of firmness that lent 
a charm to his quiet laugh, a man as big and noble of 
heart as he was stalwart of body — a man's man. His 
whole timbre and appearance was surcharged with that 
peculiar type of virility and quality that lends itself 
to the inspiration of the sculptor and makes him itch 
to put it in bronze. 

The saddle the President rides, covering the back 
of his prancing mount, is a work of art, enriched with 

139 



LET 'ER BUCK 

its heavy hand tooling, its long fapideros jauntily 
swinging and flipping from his stirrups, the big silver 
medallions heliographing to nearly a hundred thousand 
eyes the message and the spirit of the Round-Up. 

Some of the contestants leisurely cross the arena. 
There's Dell Blancett, tall and rangy, followed by Cor- 
bett, short and thick-set, and others of the well-known 
contestants, each packing his own saddle, with latigo 
trailing and spurs clinking. There's Bill Riding and 
Jess Brunn, two of the wranglers, six foot plus, rangy, 
clean-cut, and narrow-eyed, typical cow-punchers. But 
whatever their set or hang, all carry that simple, 
natural pose of men of the range — in manner straight 
and quiet, in bearing fearless, and in nature generous, 
but individualists all. They are a type in the passing — 
a type which Pendleton holds at its true value. 

You sit tense on the edge of that opening hour. 

HOP TO IT 

"Let 'er buck!" With a thundering roar the slogan 
rings out and the great epic drama of the West has 
begun. 

Bang! They're off! 

A score of plains-bred men and horses flash from 
the start, swing around the track in a wild, mad tear 
and smother of dust, a rattling, hammer-and-tongs 
run. For wild rush and reckless speed and turns, 
nothing can outrival the cow-pony race. Yes, they 
crowd at the turns, these chapped and booted cowboys, 
they cut in on the stretch and they do everything that 
the skill of those rough-riders of the range can do to 
beat out their adversaries. It's a fight of man and 
horse against men and horses, with every art known to 

140 



THE ROUND-UP 

these centaurs of the plains thrown in, a cowboy and 
horse is down, he's up before his horse — he's mounted 
and is off again. 

Bang ! There they go again. 

But this time it is a band of mounted Indians, each 
one of which, save for a breech clout and the paint his 
squaw had decorated him with, is as unhampered by 
the garb of conventionality as September Morn. They 
shoot down the wind — see how they lash hide and 
cling to pole in their mad hurly-burly sweep around 
the oval, in a way which for utter fearlessness makes 
tenderfoot and stranger catch their bieath. 

Out come a score of mounted cowboys — each kicks 
off his chapps onto the ground beside him and mounts. 
They are facing the opposite direction from the way 
the other races start, you wonder why. It's the quick 
change race and shows skill in preparing to ride and 
changing saddles. They start in a flash but bring up 
as suddenly after a scant one hundred yards, swing 
horses, dismount and remove saddles; mount again 
and back; jump into chapps, and now leaping through 
the air they are back to saddles, which with astonishing 
swiftness they have put on properly cinched up. Seem- 
ing to shoot through space they have crossed the line 
at the starting point. 

The squaw race is announced, and the mounted 
phalanx of full-blood, Umatilla Indian girls on Indian 
ponies line up at the pole. For gameness and fine rid- 
ing the twenty squaws who run the squaw race, also 
on horses that are bare-back save for surcingle, are 
worthy representatives of their tribe. 

"Go!" In brilliant garb, like a moving bouquet of 
color, their black braids streaming in the wind, they 
shoot like iridescent streaks around the great oval. 

141 



A WILD SWING AND TEAR THROUGH A 
SMOTHER OF DUST 

Swiftly Follozved by the Indians in 

A MAD-CAP RIDE, EVERYBODY FOR HIMSELF. 

Then the Relay 

SWIFT AND RECKLESS AT THE TURNS 

The maverick race "through a smother of dust" is one of the 
most picturesque and characteristic events. Twenty to thirty 
cowboys in a turmoil of ropes, hoofs, horns and dust take after 
the most "outrunningess" kind of a steer. The first rope over 
the horns wins. 

The bewildering, quick changes of the relay and pony express 
are indescribable. Both closely akin, are a survival of the old 
dare-devil riding of the cowboy mail-carriers through the coun- 
try of hostile Indians. In both races, each rider has two 
assistants, one to hold and one to catch, saddles to weigh not 
less than twenty-five pounds, any cinch allowed, same horses to 
be used each day barring: accidents, each race a three-day con- 
test, best total time winning. In the cowboy's relay champion- 
ship, the rider has four horses. He must saddle, unsaddle, mount, 
and dismount unassisted, ride two miles each day and change 
horses each half mile. On the first day, riders draw for place in 
paddock, afterwards they take them in the order in which they 
finish. 

Two timers are assigned to each horse in both pony express 
and relay, as one relay between George Drumheller's and Fay 
LeGrow's strings ran so close that at the end of the three days' 
racing there was but 1-5 of a second between them. LeGrow's 
string ridden by E. A. Armstrong winning in 12 minutes 56 1-5 
seconds. The Round-Up relay record of 12 minutes 7 seconds 
was made by Scoop Martin on a Drumheller string in 1911, 
also the best single day record of 4 minutes 1 second. Darrell 
Cannon holds second record of 12 minutes 21 1-5 seconds made 
in 1920. 

Watch Allen Drumheller on Lillian Ray as with hat gone, he 
races apparently "swift and reckless at the turns." See his style, 
far forward, low and close on his horse, riding zvith him, prob- 
ably sitting thirty pounds lighter than either of the other men. 

The most important thing in the relay is horsemanship in 
arriving at stations. Drumheller after dismounting takes one 
step to grab cinch to unhook, one step ahead to throw on saddle 
to waiting horse, and one grab in hooking up, then on and away. 
A steady head may win a relay or pony express race for it's a 
long one and many things may happen. 

Allen Drumheller's record makes him the most remarkable 
all-round racing rider who has ever run at Pendleton. He has 
ridden into two world's relay championships and one second in 
the three consecutive years he raced, with Sleepy Armstrong a 
close second. Allen not only holds third record in the cow- 
pony race, but first in the pony express, time 6 minutes 18 1-5 
seconds; also best time one day 2 minutes 5 seconds. In 1915 he 
took first in all three, relay, pony express and cow-pony. 

Jessie Drumheller, petite and the very essence of refined fem- 
inity, is a splendid counterpart of her brother, a superb relay 
rider and holder of the 1918 girl's cow-pony championship and 
also the record time of 54 seconds on the Pendleton track. 




Photo by W. S. Bowman 

A Wild Swing and Tear through a Smother of Dust 




Photo by W. S. Bowman 

A Mad-Cap Ride, Everybody for Himself 




Photo by Maj. Lee Moorhouse 

Swift and Reckless at the Tiu-ns 



SWINGING THE TURNS LIKE GALLEONS IN A GALE 

The stagecoaches, those old caravels of the plauis, are guided 
in their courses around the quarter-mile track with no slowing 
down at the turns and horses on the dead run from start to 
finish. It is little wonder that only one year in Round-Up his- 
tory has seen the three days running go through without one 
or more accidents. 

Wells Fargo, one of the first and the first thoroughly organized 
express, ran their leather, thoroughbraced, Concord coaches with 
four to six horses in the finest Concord harness wherever a train 
did not go and there was enough of a demand. Their first 
stagecoach came around the Horn in 1852 and may be seen in 
their stables in San Francisco. 

Ik the old days a stagecoach generally made forty to sixty 
miles a driver, with a relay every twenty miles or so. Some of 
the well-known Wells Fargo six-line stringers like Dave Horn 
and C. W. Barger of Pendleton have gone sixty miles each 
way, being "on the seat" for forty-eight hours. 

The "stages" in the stagecoach race are genuine old timers 
and are furnished by the Round-Up management. Each race 
goes to the "best time," winning each day. Each contesting 
driver is allowed as many assistants as desired. These comprise 
the driver or stringer, the "lasher" who wields the whip, as may 
be seen on the near and winning coach driven by Jim Roach, 
and the passengers. The passengers are the two or three extra 
cowboys who barnacle on the side of the coach nearest the arena, 
from where they hang far out to keep it from capsizing at the 
turns. 

H. W. Smith is the veteran driver here having driven off and 
on from the first contest in 1912 until 1920 with a once around 
the track record of 32 seconds. The race is a half mile, the 
record being 1 minute 14 seconds made by John Spain in 1913, 
with E. O. Zeek second in his 1912 record of 1 minute 14 1-2 
seconds. Joe Cantrell, who thrice won the championship, is a 
close third on time with 1 minute 18 seconds. 

The race is purely a Round-Up product. Although wanted the 
first year it was considered too dangerous but finally made its 
appearance the third year being established before the safety 
first idea. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

There are Kamay Akany, Mary Joshua, Wealatoy, 
Lucy Luton, Sophia Amika, Nelhe Minthorn, Wyna- 
poo and Georgia Penny, well bunched and all splendid 
riders. Now they string out a bit, now more and more 
and Lucy Luton pulls in first. The Indian girls have 
marked up a record of .58 seconds in the squaw race. 

This daring racing is attended with some spills and 
injuries, but as I help to carry from the track one of 
the riders before the galloping hoofs again encircle 
the track, her finely featured face, while bearing a bad 
gash, also shows through her suffering that superb 
self-control and stoicism of her race. 

There now quickly follow others of the never-to-be 
forgotten races. Whether it be cow-pony, Indian, 
quick change, squaw, or catch saddle and ride, they 
but create in you an anticipation for the greater thrills 
later of the maverick, relay, or pony express. In the 
whirlwind rush, amazing dexterity, grit and headwork 
is a desperate daring, and each teems with a nerve- 
racking, devil-may-care riding which characterizes this 
feature of the Round-Up. 

A thrill of the past must be felt by everyone in that 
vast throng when in the late afternoon glow the three 
lumbering four-horse stagecoaches draw near to the 
start. There are men sitting among the spectators 
watching, who in the holding of the reins in days gone 
by, held life as well. The rules prescribe a driver, 
lash-plier, and passenger. 

Crack, go the long whips, and they are off. Break- 
ing into full speed the lumbering old carriers rattle 
and swing as they rock on the turns like galleons in a 
gale. They circle the track as they once circled the 
foothills or sped on twist and turn through canyon 
and gulch, going at a gait that surprises even some of 

144 



THE ROUND-UP 

the old timers — and well it might for H. W. Smith's 
outfit is running away. 

On the back stretch a wheel horse stumbles and falls, 
the pole breaks, and with a smash heard over the entire 
audience, you see driver, lash-plier, and passenger cata- 
pulted from the coach headlong into the melee of 
struggling horses. Ordinary folk would have been 
killed, but, being merely dare-devil cowboys, they 
spring for control of their horses, and cuss a blue 
streak at their luck. 

Who would ever think of continuing to drive a 
horse in a team of four after one of its forefeet 
had been caught up in the trace of the horse 
ahead of it? 

"Pull out of the race, driver?" — Not on your life, 
or on his, either. So driver and horse hang to the 
game and around they go — once — twice — the plucky 
little horse galloping the whole distance on three legs 
and helping to pull in a close second to the winning 
coach, driven by Clarence Plant of Long Creek. 

A yell, there is a dull, scraping sound — the crowd 
springs to its feet. At the most dangerous turn of all 
— the one before the homestretch, a brake has acciden- 
tally jammed on one of the age-worn vehicles, and 
the momentum and swing has caused the whole body 
of the coach with hind wheels spinning, to be thrown 
absolutely vertically in the air, where it travels like a 
moving watch tower with a shuddering sound. 

Crash! it careens onto its side and though buried 
from sight in a cyclone of dust its course can be traced 
by the crackling, splintering sounds in its wide smoky 
trail. See! it suddenly rights as unexpectedly as it 
has capsized, and one of the most exciting runaways 
ever witnessed full-tilts by the grandstand. 

" 145 



LET 'ER BUCK 

What of the buckaroos left in the walks of the dis- 
aster? They have all picked themselves up out of the 
dust and the wreck — only a bit bruised and cut up. 
The worst one hurt is Braden Gerking, who had the 
biceps muscles of his left arm torn and laid down near 
the hollow of his elbow — enough of a shock to make 
many a stout man faint. Braden, however, is walking 
off the track alone, nursing his injury with his other 
hand, but now the first aids have collared him. He 
walked away between two of them with a sickly smile. 
This ends one of the most spectacular episodes ever 
witnessed in an arena. 

If at first you could not get hold of the imagination 
and the sentiment that is back of all this, and if it 
seems only a rough and tumble cowboy carnival, 
nevertheless, you find yourself on your feet, whooping, 
cheering with the rest of them. 

ROPE 'IM COWBOY 

To rope, "bust" and "hogtie" a wild Texas long- 
horn single-handed, within two minutes, is a sport 
which represents the daily work of the range. Unus- 
ual turns and incidents may easily send hopes glimmer- 
ing as the precious 120 seconds slip by. Men of quick 
eye and steady nerve each start their thirty feet behind 
the longhorn, who may jump the arena fence like a 
deer and again and again dodge when it hears the first 
swish of the rope. 

The rope may break on the tautening, or the saddle 
may slip, as in the case of Bill Mahaffey, who landed 
on his head with foot caught in the stirrup and but for 
the splendidly trained cow-pony might have been drag- 
ged and killed; or as in the case of the intrepid Floyd 

146 



THE ROUND-UP 

Irwin who rode into the West at Cheyenne through a 
most unusual accident. The cowboys were running 
steers across the arena under false throws in the try- 
outs, to train them so they would make for the exit 
after being roped in the show. Irwin supposed he 
had missed and turning, swung his horse away to join 
his pals who were just leaving the arena. But his 
unerring skill had made it impossible for him to miss 
even when he tried. Thus unexpectedly his rope taut- 
ened with the tremendous pull of the steer. The horse 
was thrown violently sideways on Irwin in a fatal fall. 
Irwin was such a marvelous roper that, like Ed 
McCarthy, he could "down and tie" a steer from a 
bridleless horse in better time than many good ropers 
could make with a bridle on. 

A steer is loosed ! It's Buffalo Vernon after him — 
Swish ! he is roped — thrown, but the little cow-pony, 
Spot, too, plays his part well, for now that the steer is 
down he must hold the rope taut, while Vernon dis- 
mounts and with surprising dexterity "hogties" the 
steer, looping a number of half hitches about the hind 
feet and one fore foot, thus lashing three legs of the 
steer together. All from start to finish in twenty-two 
seconds. Busting ! Well ! right under your nose, all 
through, is proof that the art of the lariat or rope, as 
your cowboy has it, is not lost. "Down and tying" — 
the finest wrinkles of the art of the old range, are all 
there. 

A sudden hush; every eye is focused toward the 
western side of the arena. The "first-aids" go scurry- 
ing to cover, as with a fierce snort a rangy Texas steer 
dashes into the great open space, and with the ease of 
a greyhound leaps at will the three-foot fence separat- 
ing race-track from the arena center. As the steer- 

147 



CATCH AS CATCH CAN 

Until They Are 

BIDDING THE STEER GOOD-BYE 

Steer bulldogging? Well, you'll learn all about it in good 
time. Steer bulldogging is perhaps the most daring sport of all — 
and is a feat one must see to believe. In comes a full grown, 
strong-necked, Texas steer, its stiletto-like horns glistening in 
the sun, thirty feet start over the line and the starter's pistol 
barks out and the contestant — the steer buUdogger, is away with 
his "hazer" as his mounted helper is called. The hazer assists in 
helping to keep the steer on the track and "stands by" with 
lasso to keep the bulldogger from being gored in case of emer- 
gency. He also assists the bulldogger in getting up and away 
from the steer after he has bulldogged, as shown, where they 
seem to be affectionately "bidding the steer good-bye." Mean- 
time the hazer is holding the struggling brute down by the most 
approved method — the tail, then on releasing him both run for 
their horses. 

This contest consists of three phases — running down and 
jumping from the horse, wrestling and throwing the steer and — 
making the getaway. In the first phase which is here described 
the man rides alongside the steer, reaches forward, judging care- 
fully his distance without hesitation, springs forward and out 
from his saddle and literally plunges — dives head first — seizes the 
steer by its horns, though it is running like a deer. He is now, 
if he maintains his hold, carried or dragged, as in the case of 
Frank McCarroll in "Catch as Catch Can." Sometimes a man 
falls short of the horns and gets a nasty fall. Sometimes he 
over-reaches, accidentally or on purpose and thus "hoolihans" the 
steer by causing a complete somersault. This, however, is not 
permitted at Pendleton and disqualifies a contestant. All ques- 
tions of cleanness of throw and fall lie entirely with the judges 
whose decision is final. 

The "hazer" as he is shown, "Bidding the Steer Goodbye," 
assists in keeping the steer on the track and stands by with lasso 
to keep the bulldogger from being gored in case of emergency. 
He also assists the bulldogger, who in this case is Art Acord, 
in getting up and away from the steer after he has bulldogged 
it. The hazer is holding the struggling brute down by the most 
approved method, the tail and horns, then on releasing him, 
both run for their horses. 




Photo by Charles Wellington Furlong 

•'Catch as Catch Can" 




Maj. Lee Moorhouse 



Bidding the Steer Good-bye 




O. G. Allen 



Hook Mm Cow! 



HOOK 'IM COW! 

It is a grim tussle, this second phase of steer bulldogging, in 
which Lafe Lewman is engaged in a fierce hand-to-horn tussle, 
as barehanded, the man against brute, seeks to throw the animal 
by a wrestling twist of the neck, using the horns and muzzle 
as leverages. Time and again, his horned adversary resorts to a 
little habit steers have, of trying to crush a man against the 
fence posts. Sometimes they endeavor to break away or shake 
him off. 

This bulldogger, is in a somewhat precarious position, having 
missed his first attempt of twisting the animal's neck clear over 
when his body weight was on the lower horn. The steer having 
thwarted this move, now has the man between his horns. If the 
bulldogger succeeds in his present move of twisting up the head 
by the muzzle and throwing the steer off balance, he wins, but 
the fence is in the way for this move and at present the odds are 
with the steer. Time and again the brute tries to crush the man, 
grimly, the man too, plays the game, asking no odds, receiving 
none. Sometimes the steers win out, sometimes the men. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

roping contest is on "time," these conditions put the 
knights of the range to the severest test. 

There goes Fred Beeson. He overtakes his steer. 
Swish ! swish ! his lariat zips through the air — a 
beautiful throw over the horns; his cow-pony, respon- 
sive to the slightest lay of the rein, swings off at just 
the right angle. The rope tautens like a harp string; 
something seems to snap — to give — but it's not the 
rope and it's the great horned adversary who suddenly 
describes a complete somersault. Thud ! and the steer 
is thrown— "busted." The rope is now held tight by 
the cow-pony; the rider is already running afoot with 
a short length of rope in hand toward the steer, de- 
pending for his own safety on his trained cow-horse 
to hold that rope taut and the steer in position. With 
marvelous speed he "hogties" the steer, stands erect 
and snaps both arms in the air. Beeson has not only 
won the steer roping championship this year, but has 
ridden down, roped, thrown and hogtied a steer in 
twenty seconds flat and established the best record 
ever made here, and this made on the Pendleton steers, 
which are, as one cowboy new to the Round-Up re- 
marked, "the outrunniness lot of steers I ever did see." 

BITE 'IM LIP 

Steer bulldogging? Never heard of it? Turn to 
any Westerner on these bleachers and he'll tell you 
that it is one of the most "knock down and drag 'em 
about" events of the Round-Up. When you under- 
stand that it is a battle of skill and science on the man's 
part, in which he must leap from the back of his run- 
ning horse, catch and throw a Texas steer with bare 
hands then hold it motionless by its upper lip with 

150 



THE ROUND-UP 

his teeth, and all this against the strength — yes, and 
sagacity, too — of a fighting steer, you'll agree that it 
is a man's game and one of the sports of the range 
which is not overrun with competitors. 

At Cheyenne the object used to be to force the ani- 
mal's horns into the ground; thus man and steer 
turned a complete somersault. This has an unneces- 
sary element of danger — to both man and steer — the 
man may be crushed under the steer, while the steer's 
horns or even its neck broken. But this "hoolihan- 
ing" is not allowed at Pendleton, where the rules favor 
the steer. 

When the fifty megaphone horns with which the 
arena is installed announce the steer bulldogging con- 
test for the championship of the world, there is a hush ; 
all eyes turn toward the stock pens at the western end 
of the arena. 

Here he comes ! The long-horned brute, with head 
and tail raised, glaring defiance at the vast throng 
safely screened behind the strong wire fencing, flaunts 
down the track with that half hesitant, shuffling gait 
which bespeaks the angry steer. Thirty feet is his 
start from a mounted cowboy and his helper called a 
"hazer"; then, on signal, the pair "hit the wind" at 
breakneck speed. As the bulldogger swings to the 
left, his helper swings to the right, for the helper's 
main purpose is to keep the steer in the track. 

In a perfect turmoil of hoof, head, and huddle, Run- 
yan, the bulldogger, dives from his saddle for the 
steer, but instead of landing on the steer's head, lands 
on his own. Visitors from large cities and sedate 
centers of learning gasp. 

"Whoop!" goes the cowboy and ranch contingent. 
"Go get 'im steer!" "Hook 'im cowl", while Runyan 

151 



THE COW-PONY'S END OF THE GAME 
Until All Is Well at the Other End and It's 
HOGTIED! HANDS AND HEADS UP 

The cow-horse is a specialist, he's a skilled laborer. When 
cattle roamed the plains, they were generally disturbed only in 
the spring gathering when calves were branded and then were 
thrown back on summer ranges ; and again in early fall when 
they were rounded up, late calves branded and all "beef" "cut," 
driven to nearest railroad station and shipped to market. In all 
this work, no adjunct was more necessary to the cowboy than 
the cow-horse. He, like his master, must serve his apprenticeship 
on the plains ; without him steers could not have been captured, 
"cut," tied, branded, penned or shipped and there would have been 
no cattle industry on a large scale. 

His feed was bunchgrass, his drink water, often poor and 
alkali-spoiled and he frequently went twenty-four hour stretches 
without a drop, yet standing up to fifty miles a day, often includ- 
ing his work. 

But as has been seen the cow-pony's great use is as a "cut 
hoss" and "rope hoss." When the rope over the imprisoned horns 
tautens, he knows just the right angle to swing off at and the 
exact moment to make the sudden halt to throw or "bust" the 
dangerous steer. He knows, too, how to withstand the physical 
shock, which sometimes will not only tear a cinch like a piece 
of paper, literally wrench a saddle horn from the saddle tree, 
but occasionally violently throws down the cow-pony sideways, 
often to the injury and sometimes to the death of its rider. 

n the cowboy is alone or working separately, he must capture 
the animal by his rope, then dismount and hogtie the thrown 
steer before it can rise and charge him. It is at this stage of 
the game that the supreme test of the cow-pony's work and in- 
telligence comes — he here often actually holds his master's life 
in his keeping. Alone now, the cow-pony watches the steer, re- 
sponding to the slightest change in the unbound captive's position 
made through its struggles to rise. If there is the slightest 
slackening of the rope, the knowing cow-pony at once moves 
so as to take it up and thus constantly maintains a taut rope. 
This always keeps the steer head down and helpless, while the 
cowboy securely ties his legs together. 

In this case of old "Spot," a well-known, beloved character at 
Pendleton, and probably the best trained cow-pony in the coun- 
try you see him well upholding the cow-pony's end of the game 
while Buff Vernon hogties the steer. In the picture of "Hog- 
tied ! heads and hands up" you see one of the cleverest cow- 
pony veterans "Sunrise" signalling to the judges, along with his 
master, that expert roper Dan Clark, General Livestock Mana- 
ger of the O. W. R. & N. Little wonder that the cowboy grew 
to love his faithful ally upon whom not only his vocation but 
his very life frequently depended. 




Photo by W. S. Bowman 



The Cow-pony's End of the Game 




Photo by Ward 



Hogtied ! Hands and Heads Up 




Photo bv W. S. Bowman 



A Merry-Go-Round 




Photo by Burns 



Stay with 'im Cowboy 



A MERRY GO ROUND 

And Then 
STAY WITH 'IM COWBOY! 

Steer bulldogging originated in cowboys first wrestling with 
young calves, then gradually larger and larger animals were 
taken on. It is one of the few sports that does not appear to 
have been a recognized ranch sport emanating from the work of 
the range, but it has now found its place as a Round-Up classic. 
It was first introduced into Pendleton by Buffalo Vernon, that 
first king of bulldoggers. He bulldogged at the first Round-Up 
in 1910 for exhibition, then the next year along came Dell Blan- 
cett and entered the contest as they had both done it at Chey- 
enne and at the Miller Brothers 101 Ranch in Oklahoma. 

Buff Vernon also introduced bulldogging at Cheyenne and 
with a sprained wrist to boot. This was when Colonel Theo- 
dore Roosevelt was there and put Cheyenne on the map as a 
result. "Teddy" shook hands with Buff and complimented him in 
the inimitable way that T. R. had. 

As far as it is possible to find out, a man named Pickett seems 
to have been the first bulldogger on record. He even tackled, 
barehanded, a thoroughbred, imported, Andulusian bull with a 
reputation to bulldog it at a Mexican bull fight. When their pet 
toro was actually getting the worst of it, the crowd showered 
Pickett with bouquets — oh no I bouteilles instead — and knives to 
express their appreciation of his nerve, with the result, that poor 
Pickett was forced to let go and only escaped death by another 
man flagging the angry beast. 

Each phase of this contest is exciting, but this second phase 
of the struggle is its main feature. The power and size of the 
brute is shown in the case of Henry Rosenberg of Pendleton, 
who though a big man is for the moment being swung a la merry- 
go-round, after receiving a bad gash on the knee. Ray McCar- 
roU of Pendleton, who is going to "stay with him" is a superb 
boxer, wrestler and buckaroo and is exemplifying the power 
and endurance of a man over his horned and heady fighting 
adversary. Rosenberg is in the first position of the wrestling 
or second phase, McCarroU in the last just as the steer is about 
to fall. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

gamely picks himself out of the dust, shakes some of 
it out of his system, and waves a hand as a signal that 
he is unhurt. 

There were many game fights put up, for it was a 
contest of champions, the best total time for the three 
days winning. The first day the steers had the best 
of it, not one being thrown; and the second day was 
nip and tuck; but Saturday the cowboys came into 
their own. But it must be remembered that there 
were no half-grown, underfed animals in the Pendle- 
ton outfit, which were from the herd that had been 
brought from Laredo, Texas, the year before, and had 
been roaming free on the range with the best of feed ; 
as fine a lot of big-necked longhorns as one would 
wish to see. 

Here comes Jack Fretz — a pretty catch. He's 
wrestling with only a one-horn grip; the steer drags 
him to the rail and there tries to gore him, and the 
plucky cowboy finally lets go. Now he's lost his hold 
and the sharp-hoofed brute proceeds to jump on him 
with all four feet. Still the bulldogger fights on, ward- 
ing off, dodging the hoofs above him, actually fighting 
now for his life, until the steer puts for a photog- 
rapher. 

Bang! it's "Mike" Hastings, whose all-round bull- 
dogging record proclaims him one of the peers among 
buUdoggers. Once around the track, he swoops down 
upon the longhorn before the grandstand; a short 
tussle, and the animal falls amid a roar from the 
audience. 

"Bite 'im lip !" — This culmination of the contest 
Hastings proceeds promptly to do by leaning over 
and fastening his teeth into the upper lip of the 
steer, and while maintaining this hold, raises his 

154 



THE ROUND-UP 

hands in the air, all accomplished in twenty-three 
seconds. 

John Dobbins puts up a game fight but the judges 
decide a foul in favor of the steer and disqualifies 
Dobbins for tripping. Jim Massey fights his steer for 
almost ten minutes and is finally hung up on the arena 
fence in the steer's last efforts to free himself. 
Throughout all the events we see that some of the 
most remarkable features were the game and superb 
exhibitions by the losers; but one of the greatest 
hand-to-hand struggles between man and brute is the 
harassing battle between the soldier cowboy, Cor- 
poral Roy Hunter of the 21st United States Infantry, 
and his wild-eyed, long-horned foe we are now wit- 
nessing. 

He has disdained to chase his animal until it is tired, 
and has run it down in a scant hundred yards. He ap- 
proaches the grandstand at a furious pace and now 
directly in the center of it reaches forward, plunges 
from his running horse, seizes the big horns in a 
powerful grip, swings an'd drags another hundred 
yards before the steer's impetus is even checked. 
Twice Hunter brings the steer to a standstill. 

Look! he works more in front of the wild-eyed 
animal, more between his horns, and essays the second 
phase of the game — the twisting of the brute's head 
for a fall. 

Every muscle is tense. Using the horns as levers, 
he slowly and surely twists the steer's neck; the nose 
gradually comes up. Seel Hunter feels he can hold 
his advantage by the weight of his body on the lower 
horn. He reaches an arm over the strong neck and 
grasps the upturned muzzle. Both hands now slide 
under it, tighten on it. Watch now — he's making a 

155 



DARE DEVIL RIDING AT TOP SPEED 

On the Track, But in the Arena You'll Admit 

THAT'S TYIN' TM 

In the third phase of the steer roping contest the cowboy dis- 
mounts and hogties the steer by crossing its three feet, and 
securing them by two wraps and a half hitch with a hogtieing 
rope which he carries about his waist — sometimes the cowboy 
crosses three fingers at the same time. "That's tyin'_ 'im," the 
way Homer Wilson of Oklahoma is doing it. The importance 
with which this event is regarded is obtained by the amount of 
the prizes offered, which in cash value totals nearly $2,000. 

The world's champion roper receives $600 and a $350 saddle 
presented by the Pendleton Commercial Association, including 
the jack pot divided into day money on a 50, 30, 20 basis from 
the $25 entrance fees charged in this event. 

George and Charlie Wier and Ed McCarty stand out as the 
top-notch championship Round-Up ropers, but the best official 
record for a single steer here is 20 seconds by Fred Beeson with 
Joe Gardner second and Ed McCarty third. These three ran 
down, roped, threw, dismounted and hogtied six Texas steers in 
the remarkable time of 2 minutes, 8 1-5 seconds, an average of 
21 3-5 seconds for each steer. How long would it take you to 
drive one of the longhorned brutes into a barn? 

One event here is as old as the hills — even the Seven Hills of 
Rome. It is the standing or Roman race — for as far back as 
the days of Ben Hur we find its prototype. It is a race which 
demands consummate clear-headedness, agility, balance, horse- 
manship, coordination and endurance. The trick and relay 
riders are also in this class. The riders, each allowed an 
assistant, start at the gong and must rise to a standing position 
within fifty yards and remain standing until they have circled 
the quarter-mile track. 

Ben Corbett, in 1916 broke the men's record in 59 1-5 seconds, 
beating Hoot Gibson's 1913 record by only 1-5 of a second. 
But the most superb Pendleton record is held by Bertha Blan- 
cett, four times first champion in the cowgirls' standing race — 
being but once beaten for first place by Vera Maginnis. In 
addition she also holds the supreme time record on the Pendleton 
track of 59 seconds flat. 




d 

5 



3 




e2 



> 

"-1 
<p 




A PRETTY THROW 

Hootcha lal If you have never seen the "outringess" kind of 
steers overtaken by the "knowingest" kind of cow-ponys, and 
roped and thrown by the cleverest experts of the lariat, you still 
have something to live for. 

The cowboy's success in range work with cattle depended 
first on possessing a cow-pony, secondly on his own roping 
ability with all the innumerable minor arts of the vaquero's call- 
ing. The cowboy who was a handy roper easily found com- 
petitors to determine who was the best of "the bunch." Men of 
a ranch or champion ropers from neighboring ranches held rop- 
ing contests on the open prairies with only cowboys as spectators. 

Thus these contests developed into open-to-all competitions 
and today we find the public interested and these roping contests 
brought to cities. In the arena at Pendleton the great experts 
of the lasso, compete in the steer-roping contest for the cham- 
pionship of the world. Certain rules have been adopted by the 
ropers. At Pendleton the contests in this, as in all the competi- 
tive events, are done on "time." The steers must be roped, 
thrown and hogtied within a minute and a half. The purpose 
of throwing a steer on the range may be to brand, mark, identify 
or inspect an animal or perhaps to kill it. 

The chase and capture of a wild steer is so familiar to an ex- 
perienced cow-horse that even bridle, reins and a guiding hand 
are not necessary. Into a moving prairie herd he will proceed 
knowingly toward a certain steer. Furtively, avoiding any haste 
which might cause a stampede, he quietly forces the animal out 
of the herd where danger of excitement is over. 

Responsive to the slightest lay of the rein, or often without 
guidance he follows the quarry at every turn, bringing the cow- 
boy into the best position for the throw. So these cow-ponys 
used in the Round-Up contests are some of the best the ranges 
of the Northwest produce, bringing even five hundred dollars 
in the open market. 

,Bang! The steer shoots into the arena like a deer. Thirty 
feet start and the cowboy and cow-pony are after him on the 
jump. Around and above the cowboy's head swings the revolv- 
ing noose of his rope. Swish ! and the long coil snakes through 
the air, the noose opens fairly then drops in a neat throw over 
the horns and tightens on them. The pony changes his direction 
at an angle. Thud I the steer is thrown. So ends the first and 
second phases of the steer-roping contest. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

courageous effort for the throw. Missed! the steer 
is as crafty as the man and changes the position of his 
body. He now has the man on the defensive. 

Look! the man has worked his steer to the same 
position a second time, and now to the surprise of the 
great crowd the steer has suddenly dropped — thrown 
from its feet. Bleachers and grandstand now go wild. 

"Stay with 'im cowboy!" "Bite 'im lip!" encour- 
agingly yip and whoop the vast throng. But too soon ! 
The steer is again up — and coming. Before Hunter 
could take advantage of the fall, his hold was broken. 
His position is now critical for he is off his feet and 
being dragged. But Hunter's life on the range, 
coupled with his superb army training, come into obvi- 
ous play. Though weakened, he is undaunted. Again 
he grabs the horns, but this time to save himself from 
being gored. He is even forced to wrap his body 
about the fighting brute's head and in this grim grip 
the fighting demon dashes the cowboy-soldier into the 
fence in a vicious effort to crush him. 

Whack! Crack! Splinter! but the soldier stays. 
In a supreme effort he half rises and attempts another 
throw but now slips again under the onrush of the 
horned devil. With strength failing fast, he makes a 
last but futile effort to regain his feet, an almost im- 
possible act when once way down and the steer mov- 
ing forward. Hanging by the horns, he is dragged a 
full quarter of the way around the track; again and 
again the heavy brute, gouges and bruises as he treads 
him with his sharp hoofs. 

It is a grim fight : but the soldier still refuses to 
release his hold. Now hanging on to a single horn 
only, utterly exhausted, clothes torn and body cut, the 
steer with a final, vicious, side swipe flings him off. 

158 



THE ROUND-UP 

But Hunter has still head enough to save himself 
from being gored by lying motionless face downward 
in the dirt. 

Whish ! his helper's rope sings through the air just 
in time. Herders now quickly lift him to his feet. A 
wave of his hand assures us that, at least from his 
point of view, though a bit mauled, he is uninjured. 
A mighty cheer goes up in recognition of the gamest 
fight in this contest ever witnessed at the Round-Up. 
Hunter's battle is an epic. Even the hard-boiled buck- 
aroos agree that he was beaten by a steer that would 
have beaten anyone. 

In these contests of men and brutes on even terms, 
often with all the odds in the favor of the latter, one 
sees men with determined souls win out in struggles 
which grip deep and make the blood tingle, and cause 
a latent call of the wild to surge in healthy response to 
the great living, panting West before him. 

You hasten to record in your note book that your 
evening and morning calisthenics and your setting up 
exercises, even your work with the gloves of which 
you are rather proud, is child's play beside steer bull- 
dogging. 

HOOK 'EM COW 

"Let 'er buck !" This slogan generally signifies that 
some famous outlaw horse is about to be mounted by 
the rider who has drawn him the night before at the 
Round-Up headquarters. But this time it is black 
"Sharkey," the famous nineteen hundred and twenty- 
five pound, unridable bucking bull, who, in charge of 
his "wranglers," is just poking his nose from the 
corral and is soon followed by the contingent of bulls, 
buffaloes, and steers. 

159 



MAN VERSUS BEAST 

While "Below Decks" Is 

THE NAVY TAKING ON FRESH BEEF 

As they play this sport at Pendleton, steer bulldogging is one 
of the most novel and man-nervy feats of the Round-Up. The 
steers often big, strong, four year olds and have often won out. 

Roy Hunter, the cavalryman, to the astonishment of spectators 
and judges had sprung a surprise, by jumping his steer, forcing 
its head and horns suddenly down into the ground, causing it 
and himself with it, to turn a complete somersault plumb in front 
of the grandstand, while Roy lay smiling amidst the debris, the 
steer bulldogged flat out in the best time that year of 24 1-5 
seconds, but the judges disqualified his throw for "hoolihaning." 
The contest of the "man versus beast" is a dramatic moment, 
when Hunter with a gradual weakening is being dragged around 
the arena track in the famous epic of this game described in this 
chapter. 

Yakima Cannutt the big buckaroo and winner of the world's 
steer bulldogging championship in 1920, when he bulldogged two 
steers in just 1 minute and 1-5 second, the first in 28 1-5 seconds, 
the second in 32 seconds flat, decided, that during the war he'd 
serve in the Navy. He considered two world championships on 
the hurricane deck of a bucking bronc would well qualify him to 
ride the waves or buck any sea his country might require — so he 
just slipped down to Pendleton for the Round-Up to take on a 
little "fresh beef for the Navy." 




^^^^^I«il.^.^.^^^i«^.^r,i^.. 



Photo by Charles Wellington Furlong 

An Epic Fight 




Photo by W. S. Bowman 

The Navy Taking on Fresh Beef 




Photo by Maj. Lee Moorhouse 



Bite 'im Lip! 




Photo by Round-Up Association 



Thumbs Upl 



BITE 'IM LIPl 

Is Now 
THUMBS UP 

The vast oval gasped at the daring of those who indulged in 
fast play and danger of this one of the three major sports of the 
Round-Up. Bite 'im lip ! this is the yell from the bleachers when 
anticipating the last part of the second phase of bulldogging a 
Texas Longhorn. 

Bite 'im lip 1 and Dell, having thrown his steer has now 
reached over from between its horns, in accordance with the 
rules and classics of the game, seized the upper lip between his 
teeth and is now holding his hands up for the count of four 
seconds. But that was before some agents of the honorable 
society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, which has done 
splendid work in its own field, overstepped its mark when one 
year they objected to this phase of this contest. They failed to 
realize that there was no harm or hurt to a steer in having a 
man hold a steer's lip, merely as a matter of form, for the space 
of four seconds in his dull teeth without even bruising the skin. 
The neck twisting is no more injurious or hurtful than that of 
wrestling. However, the Round-Up complied and now the rules 
prescribe that the steer must be thrown flat on his side and held 
with one hand released, as Orville Banks is shown with his 
"thumbs up." Unless a steer is thrown within two minutes the 
bulldogger is disqualified. 

The best time for two steers wins — the best time on record is 
that of Yakima Cannutt of 1 minute 1-5 second, beating Jim 
Massey's championship record of 1919 by only 1 3-5 seconds. 
The best time recorded for a single steer being that of Jess 
Stahl in 18 1-5 seconds with Paul Hastings record of 23 seconds 
made in 1917, next. 

The champion in this contest takes home with him besides the 
$330 purse, one of the finest of Stetson's, the pride of the cow- 
boy, that a leading Pendleton furnishing house can secure, the 
second and third presentation of merchandise certificates go to 
the second and third winners in addition to the $150 and $100 
prize money respectively. Well they have earned it, for while 
each has downed his steer within 30 seconds he has risked his 
life and limb more times than the average man does in thirty 
years. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

The buffaloes give their wranglers no end of trouble 
as they viciously charge this way and that, but no 
wrangler cares to tackle these vicious, powerful, little 
brutes on foot. Not only a nose ring, but a rope about 
both a fore and hind leg and a horse on each end of 
the rope holding taut in opposite directions, is neces- 
sary to hold the half-grown bison for the blind and 
saddling. A buckaroo mounts. A rough ride for a 
second or two and he's thrown, narrowly escaping 
being gored by the sharp horns of the animal. 

The two young Jersey bulls discharge all obliga- 
tions to their riders with interest but without trouble, 
much to the delight of the spectators. There's "Lovin' 
Louise," the bucking cow, but the only affection in 
her nature she shortly proves is her love to get rid of 
her man. So, too, with Hereford Bess. The big red 
bucking steer is being mounted — he's off and the rider, 
too. "Did the cowboy ride the calf?" laconically re- 
marks a wrangler, amid the uproar from grandstand 
and bleachers. 

A murmur of satisfaction now goes up — they are 
saddling Henry Vogt, whose fame is second only to 
Sharkey's. 

"That's the original cow that jumped over the 
moon," comes out of the audience, as Tex Daniels, 
who had once managed to stick to Long Tom though 
he double-reined, stays just one buck on Henry's 
broad back, and also Harris Thompson shows how 
easy it is for a man to lose his breath as well as his 
bearings. The best time that has ever been made was 
6 1-2 seconds; the average time is less than one 
second. 

The bulls are certainly invincible and one may well 
ask why they are so much harder to ride than the 

162 



THE ROUND-UP 

horses. I asked that question myself in the cowboy's 
mess-tent one day at the midday meal. 

"Say, Furlong!" and "Skeeter" Bill Robbins from 
California craned his long neck forward from the 
other end of the long pine board table. "The best 
way ter find out th' difference between th' way a hoss 
bucks and a bull bucks is ter git on th' bull." 

I caught the challenge in his glance. 

"Well, name your bull, Skeeter." There was nothing 
else to say. In consequence Mark Moorhouse, director 
of arena events, assigned me to ride Henry Vogt the 
next afternoon. 

Well, I grabbed for the horn of the saddle and 
picked up a handful of dirt. The kind-hearted judges 
generously offered me another try on account of not 
getting my stirrups, but the three and a half seconds 
of this trip on Henry were so occupied with problems 
of applied kinematics that it was not until some time 
later that I was able to draw a few conclusions and 
these are that the bull's back is so much broader than 
that of a horse that no grip with the legs can be ob- 
tained. He is saddled far back where he can concen- 
trate his strongest buck, the saddle skids with his hide 
over his backbone, he concentrates a tremendous 
amount of energy in a buck, and his movements are 
hard to anticipate. It is in this anticipating what a 
bucking animal is going to do that makes a good buck 
rider, for the man must out-think the animal and be 
prepared to meet every movement. 

Happy Jack Hawn of Fresno, California, who sold 
Sharkey to the Round-Up, with that smile which drew 
him his name proceeds to cinch up the bull trapping 
on Sharkey. The prize is five dollars to anyone who 
gets on him and $100 for any broncho buster who will 

163 



GRABBED FOR THE HORN OF THE SADDLE AND 
PICKED UP A HANDFUL OF DIRT 

Exactly the easiest way in the world to lose one hundred 
bucks in ten seconds. Sharkey was invincible, he had thrown 
thirty-six riders in three days at Salinas, California; none stayed 
more than two or three seconds and continued that way all 
down the line. 

Beef was never higher than when Sharkey and his contingent 
bucked at the Round-Up. 




@ 




W. S. Bowman 



When Beef Is Highest 




W. S. Bowman 



Landing at the Round-Up 



WHEN BEEF IS HIGHEST 

Is When It's 

LANDING AT THE ROUND-UP 

Just one d- 



bull after another. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

stay on him ten seconds. There is no halter rope, but 
you are welcome to take hold of anything you can get. 
Cowboy Yeager lasted about one millionth of a sec- 
ond. Hawn himself tried next and hit the dust so 
hard with his head that it looked as if he landed about 
three feet in it. Henry Vogt near by was fast making 
a reputation like Sharkey's farther down in the arena. 

The year following my "ride" off Henry, I had no 
sooner stepped from the train at Pendleton than one of 
the Round-Up committee asked one of the most un- 
kind questions ever put to me. 

"Say, Furlong! going to ride Sharkey this year?" 

I looked around for a post to lean against, failing 
which I stuttered, "Well. I haven't been asked to yet." 

"Oh, we'll arrange that." 

I was assigned for Saturday afternoon. I had seen 
Earl Patterson dragged and trodden on by the brute 
when his spur got hung up in the cinch, and carried 
off with three ribs fractured and his whole left side 
like raw meat, and decided to ride without spurs. 

In thinking it over, I concluded that one reason a 
rider lets go his hold on the bulls was because the tre- 
mendous force made him think his joints were coming 
apart at each buck and his teeth shaking out in be- 
tween, but that they really weren't — he only felt that 
way. If I could convince myself of this, I might keep 
my attention concentrated on the ends of my fingers 
and the grip on the saddle horn and strap behind the 
cantle. The philosophy then of bull riding is simply — 
hang on — convince yourself you're not coming apart, 
you only feel that way — just hang on. 

Sharkey, both days, had deposited all comers with 
clocklike regularity and demonstrated as one cowboy 
confidentially confided "the quickest way in the world 

166 



THE ROUND-UP 

to lose a hundred bucks." There was nothing from 
volplaning to tail spin that Sharkey couldn't do — an 
airship run loco had nothing on that jerked fresh beef. 
The colossal proportions of the ton-and-a-half black 
brute looked even larger to me as I watched Happy 
Jack tighten up the double cinch with a smile. Well, 
Jack could afford to smile — he wasn't going to ride 
him. 

Squarely seated in the saddle, the blind was jerked 
off, Buck! the great mountain of concentrated ex- 
tract of beef — buck! — beneath me — buck! did gyra- 
tions that for rapidity and variety — buck ! — buck ! — 
would make a whirling dervish — buck ! — giddy with 
envy — buck — buck — buck! No! my joints weren't — 
buck — coming apart — buck — they — buck — just — buck 
— felt — buck — that way — buck. I was — buck — hold- 
ing a ton, weight — BUCK — by the saddle horn — buck 
— buck — with my left hand — buck ! It suddenly shifted 
— buck — and I held a ton in my right — BUCK — by 
the strap behind — buck — buck! I felt like an ani- 
mated — buck — walking beam — buck — of a ferry boat 
with the engine gone crazy — buck — buck — BUCK! 
but my fingers held — buck — buck — He's only jump- 
ing now, — but nearly ran down a herder who sprang 
aside — jab! went his goad — only the herder — jump — 
knows why or how and perhaps he doesn't — jump — 
but jab went the point into Sharkey's flank — He 
wasn't expecting it — BUCK — neither was I — buck — 
I was slightly off balance, which an animal detects 
instinctively — I could feel the play and concentration 
of his great muscles — BUCK — something hit me under 
the saddle — BUCK — pulled out my spine then jammed 
it together like an accordion — BUCK — something else 
hit me under the chin — BUCK — something else on top 

167 



SEATED ON A TON OF LIVING DYNAMITE 

"Sharkey the famous bucking bull, $100 to any man who rides 
him 10 seconds," ran the Round-Up Announcement on poster and 
program. Then they offered five dollars to any man who 
would try him. Many tried for the world's bucking bull cham- 
pionship, few lasted after the first buck or two on the mile wide 
back of that redoubtable, bucking, black, Belgrade Bull — famous 
in the annals of the Round-Up. The old veteran was in a 
class by himself. 

There were no rules — the rider was supposed to hang on to 
the horn and the strings, hands and feet if he could and just 
grab anything. The bull-rigged saddle was cinched far aft and 
skidded all over his backbone with his slippery-elm-lined hide, 
but the philosophy of bull riding as with the horses is to stay on. 

The same applies to Henry Vogt the Jersey bucking bull — the 
author tried him in 1913 and went the same way as the rest — 
twice in one day. In 1914 on a bright sunny afternoon on the 
last day of the Round-Up he found himself seated on the top 
of that ton of living dynamite, Sharkey — then some one touched 
it off. He made a twelve-and-a-half second ride on jerked 
beef, then bit the dust — this is not in the way of pilfered litera- 
ture either. He broke the record as well as his wrist. 




Q 



CO 




Hitting the Grandstand Between the Eyes 




Q) Major Lee Moorhouse 

All Wound Round with a Woolen String 



HITTING THE GRANDSTAND BETWEEN THE EYES 

Is One Thrill, Another Is When Four Cowboys Are 

ALL WOUND ROUND WITH A WOOLEN STRING 

That's what nearly happens when at the finish of the cow- 
boys' and cowgirls' grand mounted march, this great horde of 
horsemen sweep across the arena in one tremendous stampede. 
Over the fence, they rush, kicking the dirt into the very lap of 
the grandstand as they bring up short under the very noses of 
the spectators in a wild, terrific climax of overwhelming numbers. 
Then as suddenly wheeling back, they retreat, disappearing 
through the gates in the gap toward the Indian village, and an- 
other thrill is marked in your diary. 

This picture of the vanguard of this mounted phalanx was 
taken when William McAdoo was a guest of honor of the 
Round-Up. The ex-Secretary of the Treasury proved an able 
horseman. In this picture, he may be distinguished in light som- 
brero, white shirt and light gray trousers, on the next horse be- 
yond the late Til Taylor, the Round-Up president who is the 
nearest horseman in the picture. 

"All wound round with a woolen string" as the old song goes, 
has nothing on the captivating qualities of Lucille Mulhall's 
hemp "lass rope." See this attractive, golden-haired daughter of 
Oklahoma, handle the lariat and you will realize there are ways 
of spinning yarns you never dreamed of, Lucille Mulhall, with 
Bertha Blancett, ranks as one of the two greatest all-round ranch 
women in the buckaroo game and in the game of the lass rope. 
It matters little to her whether it is fancy roping, lassooing an 
outlaw or roping and hogtieing a Texas steer. Many a fair Circe 
finds it difficult to rope in a single man, but Lucille with perfect 
grace and ease captures four horsemen in a single throw of her 
magic noose. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

of my head and slammed my t-t-t-teeth t-t-t-together — 
BUCK — my joints really were coming apart — BUCKl 
—BUCK!!— BUCK!!! I looked down and saw- 
way, way far down below me — my saddle — that's the 
last I remember until I dug my way out of the dirt — 
only a wrist broken. 

"Who'd yer say that is?" said a newcomer. 

"That's the original cow that jumped over the 
moon," says a squint-eyed spectator in chapps — but 
Sharkey never fans an ear to the laughter. 

OFF IN A CLOUD OF DUST 

You now see twenty horses, each led by an Indian, 
brought out and banded up in bunches of four horses 
each, take positions at regular intervals by the grand- 
stand fence. These are the relay strings, all on edge; 
they indeed need a man to a horse. There are the five 
riders mounting. They're away — these full bloods 
and on bareback horses, too. It's a thrilling event, this 
mile race, with each rider changing at every quarter 
with a drop and a bound, leaping their horses at full 
speed. Poker Jim's sons are both ahead, the Farrows 
are riding on their heels, but this is a three days' race 
and we will see more of the relays in which both men 
and women ride. 

Over by the paddock a bunch of some thirty 
mounted cowboys on restless whinnying mounts are 
bunching forty to a line, completely filling up the 
track for the maverick race. 

In the early days of the Panhandle, Samuel Maver- 
ick was so successful in claiming unbranded cattle that 
any "slick-ear" — a steer not marked on the ears or 
branded — found on the range, about which inquiry 

170 



THE ROUND-UP 

was made, was said to have been assigned to his owner- 
ship, and "sHck-ears" eventually became known as 
"mavericks." An unbranded calf becomes a maverick 
anywhere from ten to fifteen months old when it 
leaves the mother or when the cow has another calf. 
Hence the first to rope an unidentified animal could 
claim it, so the significance of term "maverick race" is 
easily understood. 

For a wild, devil-may-care, madcap, everybody-for- 
himself rush and the most realistic incident of range 
life, take a maverick race. A bunch of two dozen cow- 
boys line the track across the arena. In the corral 
ahead, the steer is already poking his nose through 
the gate. But the cowboys must hold their horses 
until it has a one-hundred-foot start; the first man 
that gets a rope on the steer's horns and holds it, wins. 
But this steer was not born yesterday. Dodging the 
encircling ropes, he clears the high board fence then 
smashes through the wire fence and is among the spec- 
tators on the bleachers. 

The first straight run, and Jim Roach throws and 
holds an ugly gray maverick in the press. One maver- 
ick, instead of fleeing, with a snort of mingled rage 
and fear, charges through the centre of the awaiting 
cowboy outfit. There is a melee — two horses go down, 
but with a yell they are after it in the opposite direc- 
tion ; and Narcissus McKay, an Indian, is the winner. 

THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST 

After such a whirlwind of excitement, a moment's 
pause gives the crowd a chance to catch its breath and 
the dust to settle. It is a pause well-timed in the rapid 
movement of the nerve-thrilling feats. Then, from 

171 



LET 'ER BUCK 

in front of the cottonwoods, the mounted cowboy band 
swings into the track, and to music of the famous 
mounted cowboy band led by Bob Fletcher, the cow- 
boys' and Indians' mounted grand march is ushered in. 

Following the directors, many of them ranchmen, 
two, three or four abreast, about three hundred cow- 
boys, cowgirls, scouts and old timers pass in review 
to the jingle of chain and spur and the retch of leather. 
See how all sit that close saddle characteristic of riders 
to the saddle born and bred. The girls are in colored 
corduroy and khaki or fringed and embroidered buck- 
skin, the men in the ever-picturesque chapps, those of 
Angora hair often brilliantly dyed, those of leather 
glistening in their studdings of silver; while loosely, 
freely, and generally askew about their necks, brilliant- 
ly colored kerchiefs flap or flutter in the breeze. 

Striking in this ride of romance and kaleidoscope 
of color is the Indian contingent on their gaily capari- 
soned horses. Their long-tasselled trappings flap 
about them as the copper-colored, painted faces of old 
chief, young buck, pretty squaw, and little papoose, 
stencilled in imperturbable profile, ride by the grand- 
stand. Though there is never a turn of a head, one 
who understands the Indian knows that little was 
missed by those eagle eyes. 

The guidons now dash to their posts, and to music 
this wonderful cavalcade serpentines its way back and 
forth across the arena; the guidons acting as corners 
are just markers for the column to swing around. 
Jinks Taylor carries the national emblem which adds 
the glory of color and symbol to this unhyphenated 
American spectacle. Dell Blancett is just ahead of me 
as we swing around guidon Fay LeGrow. 

"Are you a statue or a real human?" grins Dell as 
172 



THE ROUND-UP 

he passes. On one of the days, from a specially con- 
structed stand a great panoramic camera slowly swung 
in revolution, recording the event ultimately in a 
photograph thirty-two feet in length. 

Attention! In the arena the great megaphone vol- 
umes out its great arc of sound. All the riders come 
to a standstill, the great audience arises en masse, even 
the horses seem unusually still and motionless. Every 
hat is doffed, as for a whole full minute the arena is as 
silent as the prairie at sunset, while the entire Round- 
Up pays silent tribute to Til Taylor whose spirit will 
always ride abroad amongst the men who knew him. 

The grand finale of this spectacle occurred when the 
entire cavalcade which had swung into line on the 
other side of the track, swept like a prairie fire in a 
terrific charge, with wild yells, over the fence, checking 
their furious dash at the very feet of the spectators. 
The stampede almost hits the entire grandstand in the 
face with its overwhelming numbers. There was truth 
in the remark of one of the noted spectators, Maynard 
Dixon, the artist, when he said of this spectacle, "My, 
you do get an eye full." 

Swinging out of the arena, the present occupants of 
the country leave before you its former owners — the 
Red Men. For a time the vast audience is held spell- 
bound by the marvelous riot of color of the Indian 
ceremonials — the crowning "glory" of the Round-Up 
as one witnesses it within the great open-air stadium — 
the magnificient pageant of the Red Man, pulsing with 
the barbarous, rhythmic thrumping of Amerindian 
drums. 

Listen! Through the curtain of settling dust, you 
still hear that fascinating, rhythmic beat, that peculiar 
sensate rhythm whose primitive prosody leaves no 

173 



THE CEREMONIAL WAR DANCE OF THE RED MEN 

Te-tum, turn, turn I Te-tum-tum-tum ! go the rhythmic bar- 
baric beat of the Indian drums. 

Haya I Haya ! Haya-ya- ! ya-a ! cuts in the shrill, aspirant 
voices of the dancers, as now they straighten up and throw back 
their heads, now bend and crouching low, articulate their supple 
bodies through weird postures to the short staccato step move- 
ments of the Amerindian dances. 

Glistening, vibrating in the sunlight, in a color and movement 
like a hundred interlacing rainbows their costumes bedecked with 
eagles' feathers, bead work and elk's teeth, and representing 
nearly a million dollars in value, they weave and interweave 
through their ceremonials. 

It is one of the most superb Indian spectacles produced today 
anywhere on the American continent. A few more short years 
and this sunset glow of the old day of the North American 
Indian will have sunk forever below the horizon of time. 




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life, 




W. F. Bowman 



Two Indians 



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Hop to it! Charlie Irwin wrangling for his Daughter in the Relay 



TWO INDIANS 

By Themselves But Plenty of Company in the 

Cowgirls' Relay For Those Who 

HOP TO IT! 

In the picture of two Indians taken at Pendleton on the levee 
of the Umatilla one will recognize that superb type of his race 
Jackson Sundown, the Nez Perce, the 1914 rough riding cham- 
pion. Beside him is the author. 

They indeed "hop to it" in the cowgirls' relay, the aria of 
this grand opera of the West. The rules are the same as in the 
cowboys' relay except that the horses must be saddled when 
brought to the track and riders must touch the ground with 
feet when changing. In the Indian relay, the distance is one 
mile each day, four assistants allowed, riding is bareback and 
horses changed each quarter. 

A thousand dollar purse is offered in this race besides cer- 
t.iin appended prizes given by Pendleton business men. Five 
hundred dollars cash goes to the world's relay race cowgirl 
champion, three hundred cash to the second winner and beau- 
tiful ivory manicure set— What? certainly they use them— and 
two hundred to the third. 

Bertha Blancett holds the record on wms m the relay with 
three first, two seconds and two thirds. Ella Lazinka was also 
a star rider but retired in her third year of riding through the 
serious accident elsewhere referred to. She won the first relay 
held here against Bertha Blancett, who paid her the tribute saying 
that Ella Lazinka was the only rider, horses being equal, she 
ever feared. , • u 

Mabel de Long Strickland holds second record not only with 
three world's championships but with second time of 11 minutes 
55 1-5 seconds. Lorena Trickey holds the championship record 
of 11 minutes 40 4-5 seconds and the best one day time of 
3 minutes 52 seconds. Katie Canutt rode in the 1918 cham- 
pionship and third best time. Dona Card, a splendid and sports- 
manlike rider rode into three seconds while Vera Maginnis, 
Fanny Steele and Josephine Sherry all have done top-notch 
riding in this race. . i- r 

In "hop to it" Charlie Irwin of Cheyenne is wrangling tor 
his relay rider who has just dismounted and now hops to it on 
the second horse. The first is held by the assistant on the right, 
the third and fourth horses by the assistant on the left. 

In the audience are many well known faces and characters 
among them the two famous old time stagecoach drivers, Dave 
Horn and Chas. W. Barger, who may be seen just above the 
cantle and horn respectively of the saddle of the horse on 
the left. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

doubt that it belongs to the ceremonial or War Dance 
of the Red Men, of the Umatillas. You are looking 
out upon the descendants of the tribes that composed 
the great dominating Shahaptian stock of Amerinds, 
whose hunting grounds were the vast territory of the 
Snake River and the middle Columbia, from the Bitter 
Root Mountains to the Cascade range, and as danger- 
ous a race as the whites ever encountered in their 
march across the continent. 

Rainbow blankets, eagle-feathered war bonnets, with 
their long streamers down their backs, necklaces of 
bear's claws, embroidered moccasins, blankets and 
shirts bedecked with elks' teeth, fantastically painted 
faces and near-naked bodies streaked in broad bands of 
ochre and black: squaws dressed in beautiful, beaded 
buckskin jackets and skirts, ornamented with their 
wealth of elk's teeth, with leggins of red and green 
flannel and plain buckskin moccasins, still seem to ex- 
press that stoical kinship with sun and earth, water 
and sky, that their ancestors felt before the coming 
of the Paleface. 

It all goes to form a multicolored, snake-like line as 
it winds its course — a colossal, coiling serpent shim- 
mering in iridescent scales of reds, greens, yeliows, 
blues, violets, blacks, orange and whites. Now subtly 
twisting it resolves itself into a mammoth circle of ever- 
changing harmony on its mat of yellow sawdust. 
Here it metamorphoses into a great human kaleido- 
scope, designs a new spectacle at every turn and out of 
this living rainbow evolves the "War Dance" and the 
"Love Dance" — the "Indian step and a half," as one 
cow-puncher facetiously put in. 

"Haya! haya! haya! Hay-ya! — ya-a!" intones the 
weird accompanying chant as hundreds of Amerinds 

176 



THE ROUND-UP 

articulate and mill in the great, pulsating ring, now 
waxing into a wild swirl of throbbing rhythms that 
seem to strike something deep at the very roots of your 
nature. You realize that you are looking upon one of 
the most wonderful ceremonial aggregations that can 
be gathered together on this continent, and your eyes 
drink deep of that riot of color to the last draught. 

A flare of the drum — a single beat — and you have 
that unexpected termination so characteristic of almost 
all American-Indian dancing. Tinged in a saffron 
blaze of glory, the dancers pass out to their tepees in 
the cottonwoods. 

SPINNING YARNS AND OTHER THINGS 

For a few ecstatic minutes the remarkable group of 
fancy ropers electrify you. You met them all at the 
tryouts, you delight in their wonderful feats as their 
spinning shapes up the graceful "butterfly," fascinat- 
ing "ocean wave" and the marvelous "wedding ring" 
and the many other forms of juggling and control at 
will of that most elusive thing — the lass rope. 

Trick riders like Otto Kline, Sid Scale and Crutch- 
field, these you notice, think nothing of standing in 
light straps on their saddles, horse on the dead run. 
Sid sways, he's gone, no he recovers from out of bal- 
ance. It is the inimitable drunken ride. Now he leans 
dangerously far back, pours down a long draught of 
"nose paint" from a bottle, the dangerously lurching 
horse is on the dead run. Now look, he throws the 
bottle high up in the air. Hootcha' la ! and with a wild 
whoop drops into his saddle. Just to show you it 
isn't the real stuff in the bottle, they show you their 
riding is the real stuff by all manner of wonderful 

12 YJ-J 



LET 'ER BUCK 

jumps and vaultings off and on and about their horses. 
One not satisfied with the others crawHng around the 
neck of their horses while on the run, proceeds to 
crawl under the belly of his horse and come up the 
other side without slackening its pace. 

SWING TO IT! 

But no less courageous and daring are the women 
who ride. Whether it be cow-pony race, standing or 
relay, when you get such an aggregation of riders in 
the lists as Bertha Blancett, Mabel Strickland, Vera 
Maginnis, Donna Card, Ella Lazinka, Katie Canutt 
and Lorena Trickey and others, the last word has been 
said in this style of racing. These women are skilled 
in the lore of the race and the horse no less than the 
men of the range. They not only put their horses to 
the utmost, but ride with consummate knowledge dis- 
played in every form of generalship in the race. Yet 
some of these women in another week, perchance, will 
be about their domestic duties in house or ranch. Re- 
grettable incidents which happen occasionally go only 
to show the kind of stuff of which these riders are 
made. 

The relay for both men and women has been most 
popular from inception here. At Pendleton was the 
first contest which required the girls to change their 
own saddles, but they did compromise a little by allow- 
ing a "drop" stirrup, a heavy leather strap below the 
stirrup to enable them to mount more easily, for the 
relay takes a great amount of endurance. 

The first contest ever run here was between Bertha 
Blancett and Ella Lazinka. Ella brought in her own 
string from her father's ranch and won the first silver 

178 



THE ROUND-UP 

cup, also the second year. She was one of the best 
relay riders ever seen on the track here and an all- 
round cowgirl. Unfortunately the third year she com- 
peted, she was riding a strange string and lost the race 
through her horse crashing against the fence. A large 
splinter tore into her leg, but notwithstanding she 
gamely finished the race. 

There they go again and as you see the relay with 
its zip and thrills and vacillating leads — is a race in 
which the enthusiasm of the crowd bursts all bounds. 

Now, three pairs of beautiful animals are led out on 
the track — each pair mounted by a rider. At the 
crack of the pistol they're off, like the Roman riders 
of old. It is the cowboys standing race. But it is a 
safe bet, that no ancient Bellerophon ever rode his 
Pegasus with greater temerity than Ben Corbett, Hoot 
Gibson, Otto Kline and their ilk. 

Just watch them go! — How they do it is a marvel. 
Hoot Gibson is now on his second turn around the 
quarter mile track astride on his pair of horses on the 
run — and letting out all the way. The arena of Rome's 
ancient Coliseum in the days of Ben Hur never saw 
faster travelling than this. 

Hoot shoots over the line in 59 2-5 seconds — re- 
markable time on a quarter mile course. 

They're off again ; but this time it's the girls stand- 
ing race with Bertha Blancett and Lorena Trickey in 
the lead. How they fly ! Six consecutive years Bertha 
has competed in this event with the marvelous record 
of five world's championships, being defeated only 
once and that for second place by Vera Maginnis. 

Here they come ! It is a close race — Lorena is right 
on Bertha's heels, but it takes the best woman rider 
living to outclass Bertha Blancett and none have so far 

179 



LET 'ER BUCK 

found it possible. This Round-Up will see her retire- 
ment from arena contests and she means this race shall 
be her best. Watch, how she makes that last danger- 
ous turn not a degree of slackening her beautiful 
black mounts — Bang! over the line — in 59 seconds 
flat, being 7 1-5 seconds under the best record time 
ever made in the cow-pony race. This establishes not 
only a new record for the girls standing race but 1-5 
of a second under the best record ever made — which 
was Corbett's, and 2-5 of a second better than that of 
Hoot Gibson. All hats are off to the greatest known 
all-round woman rider of today! 

All through these days of hilarity and excitement 
tear the races — big, fast, free-for-all races with a 
thrill at every turn. But none excel in sustained ex- 
citement or better exhibit the art of mounting and 
riding or are more gripping than the relay and the 
pony express. 

The relay is closely akin to the pony express, but is 
a test of those prime requisites of the cowboys — to 
on and off^ saddle, mount, and ride. No less than ten 
strings are entered and half that number have been 
selected to compete in the men's relay. They include 
the famous strings of George Drumheller, *'Sleepy" 
Armstrong, J. A, Parton, Charlie Irwin, Fay LeGrow, 
Roach Brothers, Spain Brothers and of Ed. McCarty. 

Look over the string right in front of us, being held 
now by two wranglers. One is to hold the three spare 
horses and one to catch that of the relay rider as he 
rides in to change his mount. Allen Drumheller is 
here in front of us; further along is Nep Lynch, and 
on this side is Armstrong by his string. The other 
two riders will not have a look in with this trio, so 
pick your man. You haven't much choice. Although 

180 



THE ROUND-UP 

Drumheller holds fourth record in this event, he holds 
first in the pony express and is considered as all- 
round pretty and clear-headed a relay and pony express 
rider as has ever been seen on the Pendleton track. 

Then Sleepy Armstrong — well, don't worry about 
that boy's lids shutting down so he can't see when 
there's a relay, or pony express on, not to mention the 
cow-pony race in which he rode down the whole bunch 
in the best time on record here of 51 3-5 seconds in 
1919. 

A signal! A rush, and four sets of stirrups and 
latigos simultaneously fly through the air. You crane 
your neck to watch the saddles adjusted. You're too 
late — four riders shoot out and away, having saddled 
within five seconds, and in a whirlwind of dust they 
swing around the track. 

The dilating nostrils and nervous, moving ears of 
the waiting horses, fresh from the range, have caught 
the spirit of the crowd and at the second change some- 
thing happens when number three horse prefers kick- 
ing to saddling, and then bucking, leaves his rider 
hopelessly in the rear. 

Here they come for the first change, Drumheller in 
the lead. De Young, the first relay rider on the Round- 
Up track, is his helper now and a better, cleverer 
wrangler could not be found. Watch Allen — he's off 
his horse, has off-saddled and on and is away again 
with a bound in less time than has taken to tell this. 
But "Sleepy" is right there, scratching his heels, and 
Lynch is only half a length behind the others who 
now string out a bit. 

They're around again — Armstrong a little in the 
lead, but look quick — see that marvelous dismount, 
while his horse is on the run still by Lynch, whose 

181 



LET 'ER BUCK 

horse is secured by the wrangler, Ben Corbett, with 
one of his spectacular jumps for the horse, seizing 
him by the neck as he comes in. Here Lynch gains 
and is off almost at the same moment as Drumheller 
but in the fore part of that moment which beats Drum- 
heller out by a length. The crowd thunders its ap- 
plause at such marvellous work. It's the last lap and 
the last day. Lynch seemingly does not gain another 
inch, neither does he lose an inch and rides over the 
line just ahead of Drumheller by a fraction of a second. 

The quality of the riding was the finest ever seen 
at Pendleton. That every man was an expert was at- 
tested by the totals of the three-days' heats, in which 
was a difference of only 2 1-5 seconds between the win- 
ner and Drumheller and 10 1-5 seconds between the 
winner and Armstrong who finished third. The light- 
ning changes of all three were marvelous, off-saddling 
nine times, on-saddling twelve, one riding a six miles 
on the quarter mile track in 12 minutes 24 2-5 seconds 
making third best time ever made, the record being 
12 minutes 7 seconds made by Scoop Martin. At the 
end of the third day the three riders have oif-saddled 
twenty-seven times, on-saddled thirty-six times, ridden 
eighteen miles on a quarter mile track in thirty-seven 
minutes and twenty-seven seconds. 

The relay has keyed the crowd to a pitch which has 
but whetted its appetite for the pony express. The 
old-time pony express with its thrills, spills and light- 
ning changes is the ancestor of the mail and parcels 
post of today. The primitive messenger of this mail 
service was strong as he was light, cautious as he was 
fearless, a quick thinker and hard rider, a man with a 
determined soul and picked for his job. 

There were men, old and grizzled, who looked out 
182 



THE ROUND-UP 

from grandstand and bleacher, hardy riders of a day 
gone by who rode many a grim race, often pitting wits 
and strength against death in a hundred forms on 
lonely, wild races with no plaudits sounding in their 
ears. Many unknown graves mark where they fell by 
arrow, bullet or stumbled horse, and history has yet 
to pay due tribute to the pony express rider. 

We now see the strings of two cow-ponies in 
charge of two assistants led out in front of the grand- 
stand, and we realize that the pony express has be- 
come the pastime of the cowboy, and the race is run 
to commemorate the skill of the old pony express 
riders. Like all the events of The Round-Up, it has 
its rules which are rigidly enforced. It is run on each 
of the three days with cow-ponies, and no racer or 
professional horse can enter. The first pony must run 
first and third quarters, and the second pony go the 
second and fourth quarters, while riders must mount 
"pony express" which means the riders must hug the 
saddle, suspend and hit the ground at least once with 
the horse in full stride before vaulting into the saddle. 
When you get such riders as Drumheller, Saunders, 
Floyd Irwin, Tommy Grimes, Jason Stanley and 
Braden Gerking, in the bewildering quick changes of 
the "pony express" — you see a survival of the type of 
the old dare-devil riders — the cowboy mail carriers 
through the country of outlaws and hostile Indians. 

The horses are pawin', hoofin' and rarin' to go. 
They're off ! The grandstand rises en masse as the rid- 
ers play for the pole. The crowd lets loose, the high- 
pitched range yells echo from the cowboy contingent, 
some Indians yip, others watch stoically, while the 
helper awaits the arrival of his riding partner with a 
cigarette airily hanging from a corner of his mouth. 

183 



RIDE 'IM COWBOY 

For 
EVEN HORSES RIDE AT THE ROUND-UP 

Up goes Hotfoot, "skyscraping" and "cake-walking" and often 
down goes the buckaroo, but not so with Wiley Blancett, who 
is making a splendid ride. This is but one of the many ways 
buckers have of unseating their riders. Blancett will be for- 
tunate if Hotfoot is satisfied without throwing himself over 
backwards. 

"Even horses ride at the Round-Up. " If you are skeptical, it is 
proved by this picture of the big, fighting, dapple-gray. Sledge- 
hammer. He is well named, for whether under a buckaroo or in 
the saddle himself, he never does anything other than in a thor- 
oughly pile-driving way. 

In no phase of any event does there occur a greater variety or 
more unusual happenings than in the wrangling, and this episode 
was one of the most unique. 

Sledgehammer has been "snubbed" by the wranglers, to the 
saddle horn of the snubbing horse, where not content with fore- 
striking at the mounted wrangler until he has forced him out of 
the saddle, has literally jumped into the saddle himself with all 
four feet, which eventually bore the little snubbing horse to the 
ground. Such is the gentle art of wrangling. 




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A PRETTY RIDE WITH HOBBLED STIRRUPS 

Has Nothing On 

THE QUEEN OF REINLAND GRACING HER THRONE 

Perhaps no phase of the Round-Up produces quite the same 
psychological sensation as the women's bucking contest, for at 
its easiest it is hard and dangerous. Consequently the Round- 
Up permits only the most skillful and proven cowgirl riders 
to enter. But a few of those entrants ride "slick," that is ap- 
proved form and without "hobbled stirrups." In fact in the 
entire history of the Round-Up the women who have ridden slick 
can be numbered on the fingers of one hand — Bertha Blancett, 
Nettie Hawn, Fanny Sperry Steele and Tillie Baldwin. 

The rider is Prairie Rose Smith making a pretty ride on 
Wiggles with hobbled stirrups, but hobbled stirrups or not it 
takes courage and a splendid rider to stay these buckers. If you 
doubt, try it. 

Few queens have vouchsafed to occupy thrones less secure 
than that supreme one offered by the parliament of the Round- 
Up each year — the world championship saddle of the cowgirls' 
bucking contest. No cowgirl queen reined as completely or as 
often as Bertha Blancett, who has over a period of six con- 
secutive years ridden into four cowgirls' world's bucking cham- 
pionships and into two hotly contested second places. 

Among the Round-Up horses she has ridden are Spike, Demp- 
sey, Snake, at Cheyenne she rode the famous bucker Dynamite 
and at the Calgary "Stampede" rode that equine devil Red 
Wine which killed Joe Lemare. 

Bertha Blancett always rides "slick" and is not only one of 
the greatest all-round horsewomen of the world, but the best 
all-round range woman America has produced. She had the 
remarkable distinction in 1916 of having come within one point 
of winning the all-round championship on both cowboys' and 
cowgirls' points, and would have done so, had not one of her 
horses in the relay race jumped the fence. 

How did she learn? Why this daughter of a rancher from 
childhood was bred on the range — got her schooling on the 
barebacks of wild colts and took her domestic science lessons 
by making butter of her father's dairy ahead of time by riding 
her dad's milch cows nearly to death. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

One man is bucked clean off; another's mount leaps 
the fence into the arena. They swing around the nar- 
row curve, where the rider's game is to guide his horse 
to his relay without slackening speed too soon. 

Then occurs the special event of this race — chang- 
ing horses. Each swings from his horse, still on the 
run ; his helper springs to it and at the same time turns 
the relay over to the rider, who, without a second's 
pause, makes the "pony express" mount. This is a 
flying leap, without the use of stirrup, into the saddle 
after the horse starts and is off on the run. One man's 
horse breaks clean away on the change but from habit 
due to training them in the tryouts for this run, it 
circles the track once and returns to his owm mate. 

There — a horse is down; it's Gerking, but he's up 
again and has not lost his horse either, for all in one 
motion he seems to be in his saddle again, eventually 
pulling in for second place. With tear and rush off 
they go again, and when Allen Drumheller, after three 
days' races, pulls out his three miles with his twelve 
flying mounts and nine changings of horses in 6 min- 
utes 18 1-5 seconds and establishes the high record of 
all championship riders in this event, you admit there 
never was a play with faster action or more vivid 
touches of reality. 

LET 'ER BUCK 

There is a stir in the crowd as it readjusts itself. 
Heads bob and necks crane now to glimpse the few 
little bunches in the arena, each with a snubbing horse, 
bucker and the wranglers. Nearer us where the 
saddles are parked on the ground about the big 
pole surmounted by the announcer's crow's nest, the 

186 



THE ROUND-UP 

contestants await the call. The women are now to 
compete. 

Sensational rides are always made by every one 
of the cowgirl contestants, but all save Bertha Blan- 
cett, Nettie Hawn, Fanny Sperry Steele and Tilly 
Baldwin ride with hobble stirrups; but hobble stirrups 
or not, the hurricane deck of a bucking bronc is no 
place for a clinging vine, and it was a close contest 
between these champions. 

When Bertha Blancett's father took all the docile 
horses away to prevent his little seven-year-old from 
riding them, she learned to "handle and ride," by cap- 
turing wild colts and riding the milch cows nearly to 
death. In 1904, she not only rode the famous bucker. 
Dynamite, at Cheyenne, but at Calgary drew and rode 
that wicked animal. Red Wing, which killed Joe Le- 
mare. Out of five annual contests she entered at Pen- 
dleton, she rode out of the arena with three world's 
bucking championships and two second trophies — the 
greatest record made by any woman rider here. 

In the cowgirls' class none but those who have been 
tried out and proved star riders are allowed to take 
chances, whereas any old cowboy is welcome to 
risk his neck; and in this contrast is an interesting 
phase of the psychology of the crowd, who dearly love 
to see a cowboy bucked off, but who take no delight in 
seeing a cowgirl go the same way. 

"Going up!" says someone behind us, and sure 
enough, auburn-haired Minnie Thompson in her at- 
tractive leather-fringed skirt is swinging into the 
saddle over Sugar Foot and the bucking is on — and 
Minnie stays her horse in a pretty ride. Katie Can- 
nutt, Lorena Trickey and Mildred Douglas, all of 
whom have won first honors in recent Round-Ups 

187 



LET 'ER BUCK 

ride into rounds of applause. Nettie Hawn makes a 
beautiful ride on the wicked Snake, the kind which in 
1913 made her the cowgirl champion of the world. 

There are rides and good ones, too, by Princess 
Redbird, the Indian girl, Ollie Osborn, Prairie Rose 
Henderson, Ruth Roach, Eloise Hastings, Peggy 
Warren, well known here through several years of 
game and classy riding, all of whom have won second 
or third places in the contests. Then, too, there is 
Blanche McGaughey. She's ready to mount. Wait a 
minute; and she tucks a pretty embroidered handker- 
chief in her belt remarking : — 

'T don't want to lose my powder puff." 

"Does yer nose need some nose paint?" remarked 
the male brute who was handing her the halter 
rope. 

Scar Leg did his best, but Blanche rode like an 
Amazon and another sensation is added to your 
collection. 

That chivalric attitude which permeates spectators 
is also characteristic of the buckaroo, and was evi- 
denced in the quiet remark of "Skeeter" Bill Robbins 
when he turned to me after plucky Peggy Warren was 
pulled from beneath the fallen bucker, and said, 'T 
sure hate to see a girl git hurt." 

Bertha Blancett is climbing into the saddle of Ram- 
bling Jimmie, who takes a small fraction of a second 
to bear out his name and not only rambles in great 
jumps across the arena smashing through the arena 
fence, but, not satisfied, hits through to the outer fence 
before he is taken up. Now again, you see Bertha 
away in great swinging, snorting bounds on that buck- 
jumper Dempsey. All through this marvelous rider 
shows a headiness and control never before demon- 

188 



THE ROUND-UP 

strated by any other rider of her sex. Look at the 
superb saddle she sits, riding straight; but she rides 
sHck from start to finish in a way to satisfy the most 
keen-eyed, hard-boiled judge — see, fans him, too, at 
every jump, and on the last jumps into the world's 
cowgirl bucking championship. 

"Ride 'im! Ride 'im! Sit up on that burra," 
yelled Jess Brunn to Eloise Hastings of Cheyenne as 
he jerked the blind off of Bug's blinkers — and ride 
him she does into third place. As she alights from the 
bucker, you see her hand fumble indefinitely around 
her waist to the pocket-flap of her skirt. 

"Is she hurt?" you ask. — Listen! 

"Gee, Jess! I kept my chewing gum just where 
I stuck it." 

What is the peculiar psychological phenomenon that 
now seems to sweep around the great living oval of 
humanity like the soft fanning of a warm chinook 
wind. You feel it — everyone feels it a great, invisible 
mental rustle which sets the whole arena on edge — 
then you know, when from nearly forty thousand 
throats the Round-Up slogan ascends in one vast roar 
— "Let 'er buck!" It echoes and reechoes until it dies 
away in the interest of the king of range sports which 
it proclaims — the cowboy's bucking contest for the 
championship of the world. 

It is the rough-riding in which the greatest interest 
and keenest judgment centers, for Pendleton brings 
together the great exponents of the art, most of them 
fresh from corral and sagebrush. The restive, furtive 
outlaws are now led out. The buckaroos troop across 
the arena and park their saddles in front of the judges' 
stand. The crowd is on edge with expectancy for the 
thrills of this most nerve-tightening event. 

189 



WHY THIS ONE WAS NOT IN THE FINALS 

The main reason being that one must not get so far away from 
the saddle even if the horse does play "peek-a-boo" with it. But 
that able and game little rider, Bonnie McCarroll, knows that Sil- 
ver let 'er buck. To analyze the cause, one has but to take note 
of the broken hobble strap on the up-thrown stirrup. • 

Hobbling stirrups, consists in strapping them together under 
the horse's belly which keeps them down and greatly aids the 
rider in keeping a seat. How important this is, this picture amply 
illustrates. It also demonstrates that hobbled stirrups have their 
distinct disadvantages in that, when they break, the rider is taken 
off guard and finds it impossible to so suddenly adapt herself to 
the other form of riding. 

Also, if a horse falls, the rider finds it much more difficult to 
disengage herself or keep her form or position in relation to the 
saddle, all of which greatly increases her danger. But the inherent 
chivalry of not only the public, but the cowboy, makes them shrink 
from witnessing injury to a woman. This was evidenced by 
Skeeter Bill Robbins after Brown Eyes fell and rolled on Peggy 
Warren's foot; crossing half the arena in about three leaps to 
rescue her, he then rubbed his sleeve across his sweaty forehead 
and remarked, "I sure do hate ter see a girl git hurt." 




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HE WOULD RIDE THAT WAY 

With the Other It's 
ALL OVER BUT THE SINGING 

The incidental ups and downs of the buckaroos' and buck- 
ers' lives during even the three days of the Round-Up, would fill 
several books and each book would have a kick in every sentence. 
Cowboys will come and cowboys will go but the spirit of the 
Round-Up will go on forever. 

Newcomers will ride in future Round-Ups and leave their 
mark and a second edition of this book may carry on the record 
but they'll have to aim high to beat the standard the past and 
present contestants have set. But they'll ride fair, play the game 
and do their part to keep it a pure sport. The cleanness of the 
sport is no better evidenced than in the consideration and fair- 
ness shown the animals, not to mention the credit and admira- 
tion given them in the part they play in the game. 

The Round-Up rules prescribe, that a rider may neither knot 
his halter rope at the end nor wrap it around his hand ; he may not 
touch any portion of his saddle. This act is known as "pulling 
leather" or still worse grasp the horn of his saddle which is 
"choking the biscuit." He may not show daylight under the sad- 
dle, loose a foot out of the stirrup even for an instant or in any 
way artificially support himself; a violation of any of thesewill 
disqualify him in his ride, even the observance of them in a 
sloppy manner or in a fearsome or too safe a way will deny him 
even a look in to the finals. 

There are many rules it is true, but the big idea is to stay on 
top. There is no rule, however, against cinching in spurs but it 
isn't desirable and sometimes is most dangerous if a horse falls 
or the rider is thrown and hung up in the cinch. Of course such 
accidents as a haher coming off is the least of a top-notch buck- 
aroo's troubles, likely as not he can ride him without. A stirrup 
breaking gives hiin a little more bother, but the_ saddle slipping 
either over the buckcr's head or under his belly is more serious, 
for the rider has either to stay with it or leave it, which dashes 
his hopes if not him. To be hung up in the stirrup and dragged 
is a most dangerous proceeding although Buddie Sterling rode C. 
Cross that way. But C. Cross had a powerful manner of bucking 
and an indelicate way of trampling on his rider when down, at 
which times it was "all over but the singing." This rider kissed 
the dust after choking the horn of the saddle which is the S. O. S. 
of the bucking code. This horse he gave a buck or two and — 
nearly killed the buckaroo. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

You see at a glance that those big, raw-boned cow- 
boys striding across the arena with their saddles are 
real cowboys who have ridden long hours in all sorts 
of weather. Most of them have mingled with des- 
perate men. There is one among them who unfor- 
tunately has "time" to serve — they say it was horse 
rustling — but he rides too well to let a little thing like 
that prevent him entering these contests, so for a few 
days he is out on parole. 

There is no more important adjunct in cowboy 
routine than the cow-horse, worth $300 today in the 
open market, a horse which knows the art of the 
game — how to ford, swim, and avoid quicksands, 
dodge the traps of the prairie dog and gopher, to move 
furtively in a prairie herd so as not to stampede it, 
how to "cut out," and then to follow the quarry advan- 
tageously in every turn, to withstand the sudden shock 
of the tautened lasso, and finally to hold it when the 
thrown steer is to be tied. But before the cow-pony 
goes through this schooling he must, when about three 
or four years old, be brought wild from the range, 
roped, and ridden. From this phase of ranch life — 
broncho busting — has developed the sport of riding, 
particularly bad bucking horses, and those ridden at 
the Pendleton Round-Up are as bad as they make 
them, whether they be "show bucker," "trained 
bucker," "outlaw," or "wild horse." 

A horse that bucks hard, straight away, with nose 
between front feet, is not necessarily a bad kind of 
bucker for the expert to ride. Still he looks well from 
the grandstand, and in consequence is known as a 
"show bucker," but he is never used as a semi-final. 

A "wild horse" is one that has roamed the range 
and has never before known the feel of headstall or 

192 



THE ROUND-UP 

saddle. A "wild horse" in nine cases out of ten puts 
up a live and game fight, but may or may not be 
difficult for the broncho buster. 

The trained bucker is in the middle class between 
the "show bucker" and the "outlaw" and usually ap- 
pears in the semi-finals. However, the term "trained" 
is somewhat a misnomer, for the horse is not trained 
in any sense but has simply been encouraged to excel 
in his wicked ways. 

It is the "outlaw," however, that is the bugbear of 
the buckaroo, a persistent bucker, which, if he cannot 
unload his man one way, tries another and still an- 
other. Both trained bucker and outlaw, with all fours 
off the ground, often make such gyrations known as 
the "side wind," "cake walk," "the double O," "the 
cork screw" or perhaps they "sunfish," "twist," 
"weave," "straight buck," "circle," "sky scrape," 
"high role," "high dive," or put on the most dangerous 
of tricks the "side throw" and "fall back" in order 'to 
shake the clinging thing from his back. 

It is because of their proficiency with unusual 
methods of bucking that they are set aside when the 
spring herd is rounded up; and some of the worst of 
these from ranches all over Oregon or even from the 
Mexican border to Canada are eventually acquired for 
the Round-Up contests at Pendleton. 

Nowhere can such a large proportion of spectators 
be found who know the game so well from start to 
finish, who live it part of the time themselves, or whose 
affiliations as ranchers, stockmen, or business men with 
ranch interests qualify them so well as judges. 

The remarks made from the grandstand and bleach- 
ers are often as instructive as they are humorous. 
But it is the Round-Up slogan, "Let 'er buck," that 

" 193 



LET 'ER BUCK 

most often echoes across the arena. It is particularly 
in point when you see an "outlaw" horse displaying 
every ounce of strength, cleverness, and viciousness to 
unseat his rider, and the rider displaying every art 
known to horsemanship in his efforts to stay on — and 
in most cases staying on. Yet even the fearless char- 
acter and ability of the riders fail in many hotly 
contested lights. There are horses and men new to 
Pendleton. The latter evidently have aspirations, some 
of which are of short duration. 

It is astonishing though, how in the excitement of 
the fight the human mind often loses all sense of time. 
One visiting lady from the Sunny South related after 
the show that the man rode for ten or fifteen minutes. 
Undoubtedly some felt that way afterwards. But even 
in the grandstand among the experts, old-timers and 
judges, claims and bets were made on time as high as 
two and three minutes. As a result of this discussion 
Judge Charles Marsh, the Round-Up secretary had 
the timers record kept showing the time each rider 
rode from when the gun was fired until the horse 
was taken up, including the buck and run, dur- 
ing the Nineteen Seventeen Round-Up. They found 
that the maxinmm time of any ride was only thirty 
seconds. The result of this record is interesting — 
here it is at the back of this volume; it is called "The 
Bucking-Time Table," there is also "The Rode and 
Thrown Table" and "The Buckers' Own Table," but 
glance over them later, for the buckers are being 
placed in position by the wranglers. 

Most riders give exhibitions which last less than 
thirty seconds, and some of the best buckers will un- 
load their riders in twenty seconds or not at all. The 
judges often smile tolerantly at a show bucker, and 

194 



THE ROUND-UP 

let the horse wear himself out more before the pistol 
barks for the "pick up" men or "herders" to take him 
up," that is, ride down and seize him. But the trained 
bucker and the outlaw are watched carefully, and thirty 
seconds is plenty of time to judge the buckaroo's rid- 
ing ability. Then, that his bucking may not unneces- 
sarily wear out the horse or break him, he is taken 
up. 

There are famous outlaw horses whose indomitable 
spirit has never been broken and whose names stand 
high on the lists of these championship contests 
throughout the West. When such horses as Long 
Tom, Angel, No Name, Whistling Annie and Casey 
Jones, get into action at Pendleton you see real bucking. 

The buckaroo was not born yesterday. He knows 
only too well that to have even a "look in" at the cham- 
pionship he must observe the rules of the game, ride 
with only a halter and halter rope instead of a bridle 
and reins and on a saddle, as prescribed by the 
Round-Up. 

This is minus the great bucking rolls which some 
riders affect and of course without locked spurs, hob- 
bled stirrups or unusual contrivances of any kind. He 
must ride not only with style, but "slick" — that is, 
straight up, with a close seat, and no daylight showing 
through — and must not shift the halter-rope from one 
hand to the other. He must "rake" with blunted spur 
by swinging his legs from shoulder to rump, and, to 
cap the climax, "fan" the horse at every jump by 
swinging his hat with a full-arm sweep to and fro, 
and, above all things, he must avoid "pulling leather" 
that is, touching the horn or any other part of the 
saddle with either hand or supporting himself in any 
way. 

195 



LET 'ER BUCK 

When one sees a rider combine these facts and as 
has been done add a puff now and then from a cigarette 
into the bargain, while a dynamo of vicious energy 
beneath him is trying to kick himself in the chin with 
his hind legs and using every resource which horse 
flesh knows how to use, one must admit that nowhere 
in the world can such riding be equalled. 

"Them buckers they're wrangling sure be rarin' ter 
go," chews a ranch hand behind us. They sure 
"be." 

Look down in the arena where every eye is cen- 
tered, on a group of four wranglers and two horses. 
Watch Bill Ridings, Jess Brunn, Missouri Slim and 
little old Winnamucca Jack, the Indian, a good wran- 
gler and hand. You soon learn from his forestriking, 
catlike twists, turns, biting and kicks that the 
four-legged brute has never known man as master, 
and that "wrangling" is no dance hall manager's 
vocation. 

"Slim" Ridings now gets the horse tethered up and 
blindfolded ready for the saddle but the cowboy or 
his helper will saddle. Then as on the range, the 
wranglers will leave the rest to the rider — taking out 
the rough from his own horse. The wrangler's job is 
in itself a very dangerous phase of the game. The 
first move with the horse in hand is to work an old 
gunny-sack as a blindfold over the bucker's eyes 
between his halter leathers. This can be done with 
many. 

It's that small grey "Snake" ! Watch the beggar as 
on any attempt to tuck the gunny-sack blind between 
his halter leathers or approach him, he strikes out 
viciously with his fore feet ; he's no beauty doctor, his 
massage is bad for the complexion. There ! a wrangler 

196 



THE ROUND-UP 

is down, and gets off with but a slight cut on the head. 
But the eyes of the crowd are centered on Sledge- 
hammer, the big dapple-grey farther along. His 
head is now snubbed by the snubbing rope which is 
"half hitched" around the saddle horn of the mounted 
wrangler, who, seated in the saddle, holds the power- 
ful, vicious brute close nose up to the horn. 

Sledgehammer does all that is expected of him and 
a little more. Not satisfied with charging the wrangler 
out of saddle, he strikes at him with fore legs, clears 
him out of the saddle and then jumps after him him- 
self, landing sqarely in the saddle of the snubbing 
horse, all four feet gathered under him, reaching a 
sensational climax when he rides the other smaller 
animal to the ground. 

"Swing to 'im Red." It's "Red" Parker mount- 
ing that harmless-looking little beast, "Culdesac." 
The bleachers tell you that both horse and rider are 
well known. He bucks! Watch the lightning-like 
plunges of the vicious equine devil, twisting and turn- 
ing like an electrified grapevine. 

"Ride 'im, cowboy," and ride him he does until 
taken up. 

"Saddle 'im or bust," yells a pock-marked, freckle- 
faced ranch hand from up Gibbon way, as Winna- 
mucca Jack and the outfit of wranglers fight it out 
with a bad actor. It's this new horse, that spotted 
Indian Cayuse, McKay, to which the interest now 
gravitates, as well as to the youngest rider who ever 
rode at the Round-Up — Darrell Cannon a fourteen 
year old buckaroo. 

Old Winnamucca after the Indian's habit of affec- 
tion for children seems to have a genuine paternal in- 
terest in the young kid. The blindfold is on, then the 

197 



LET 'ER BUCK 

saddle — carefully now the old Winnamucca cinches up 
and looks everything over. The lad cautiously adjusts 
himself in the seat, the redman gives him a fatherly 
pat on the leg. 

"My boy! he Tide um!" and jumps away as the 
blindfold is jerked off. A sudden spring, then like a 
cyclone the cayuse starts sunfishing by throwing his 
hind legs alternately to the right and left while jump- 
ing with all four feet off the ground. 

"Stay with 'im cowboy!" yell the bleachers, as the 
little animal twists, squirms, jumps, and pivots as only 
an Indian pony can. The boy is game, and even 
though the halter slips off, rides straight. 

"That man has only one hand," comments a 
stranger. 

"That's John Spain!" responds a rancher. "He 
said he'd ride, and drew Skyrocket, and he won't back 
out, neither." 

We soon see one of the gamest exhibitions of The 
Round-Up given by the former champion of 1911 
when, through all the cyclonic convolutions of that 
outlaw, Spain shows that he can ride not only without 
one hand but without both if necessary. 

"Scratch 'im, Pete !" And Spain proceeds through 
the upheaval, not only to keep a close seat but to make 
his legs travel free, back and forth, along the sides of 
the beast beneath him. 

"Lo'k'out cowboy when he comes down," warningly 
yells an old pal. Now Spain's riding Wardalopa. 
Something is wrong with the saddle, the intrepid John 
is suddenly unloaded with a foot hung up in the stirrup 
right square in front of the grandstand. Everyone is 
on his feet; laymen gasp with wide mouths, women — 
some — emit little screams of terror and old timers 

198 



THE ROUND-UP 

show a stoical grim anxiety — it's awful to see a man 
dragged while you stand by helpless. 

Buck — kick — jerk — buck, he flings his flying hoofs 
to right and left at the prostrate, dragging man. Sud- 
denly the inert form is seen to twist itself with a 
mighty effort out of the stirrup just in time to avoid — 
bang ! — a crash through the fence into the arena. The 
terrible blow splinters the boards, the rider thrown 
violently against a post is now clear of the horse but 
lies quite still. 

The horse goes on his bucking way toward the pad- 
dock. How the rider was freed from his jeopardy is a 
trick which the old hands know, but few can achieve. 
Long boots, one of which you can still see dangling 
from the stirrup, is evidence — the rider had cork- 
screwed out — of his footgear. 

But to the amazement of the crowd, as the first 
aids run to him, he suddenly jumps to his feet, one of 
which is now four inches longer than the other. The 
dazed man makes a couple of half-reeling, staggering 
turns his eyes riveted on the track then mutters : 

"Where in hell's my boot?" The grandstand sits 
down relieved. 

A wild yell of approval goes up for Long Tom when 
that great docile-looking plough horse up to his old 
tricks, rids itself of its rider in just three terrific 
jumps. Sometimes Long Tom was a bit lazy — for 
him — but when Tom "broke in two" he threw good 
men as well as others; whenever too he gave that 
famous twist to his shoulders, it was just "peek-a- 
boo" with the saddle. Whistling Annie does the same 
trick with "Whiskey Joe" of Arizona, who just 
loosens up his knees a bit and the boss isn't there. 
Crooked River proves just as crooked as his name and 

199 



LET 'ER BUCK 

soon has his rider "choking the horn" which is the 
same thing as "choking the biscuit" or puUing leather, 
that is, gripping the horn of the saddle or touching or 
bracing on any part of the saddle. This disqualifies a 
rider and is considered more of a disgrace than being 
thrown. But this rider was thrown, — good and plenty, 
with as neat a high dive feet soles up as a horse could 
wish to see. 

"Sunnin' yer moccasins?" yelled an unfeeling spec- 
tator whose slouch hat rim had been chewed into by 
wood rats. 

A superb figure strides majestically, yet modestly 
into the arena from the direction of the Indian tepees. 
Every eye focuses on his tall, lithe, well-proportioned 
body moving with all the mien and beauty of a Hia- 
watha. As he approached the judges to draw from 
the hat for the finals, this Nez Perce, nephew of the 
great Chief Joseph, who had fought the paleface, 
might well portray, Chief Massasoit, and the som- 
breroed president and judges, Roger Williams and 
his broad-hatted Puritan pioneers with whom Mass- 
asoit made the first peace at Plymouth. But it was 
Jackson Sundown, the Nez Perce, drawing for the 
finals. Let me picture his ride of another year, for it 
is one of the classics of the Round-Up. 

Four annual Round-Ups had seen Jackson Sundown 
ride into the semi-finals, and in 1915 he had ridden 
into the grand finals and pulled third money. Then the 
Nez Perce went back to his ranch in Cul-de-sac, Idaho, 
done with rough-riding and the Round-Up, for his 
had been an eventful life and he had wintered fifty 
snows. 

But the call of the gathering clans, as the next cycle 

200 



THE ROUND-UP 

of the great frontier show swung round, and the per- 
suasions of A. Phimister Proctor, the sculptor, who 
was then modehng him and Hving nearby, induced him 
to travel again with his family and pitch his tepee by 
the Umatilla. 

Many remember that Saturday afternoon in 1916. 
Sundown was one of the fourteen riders who had rid- 
den into the semi-finals. He had qualified by riding a 
hard bucking little buckskin, Casey Jones. In the 
semi-finals on Saturday he rode sunfishing, twisting 
Wiggles in a most sensational style, and by doing so 
also rode into great popularity with the crowd. It was 
this ride that finally put him with Rufus Rollen of 
Claremont, Oklahoma, and Broncho Bob Hall of Po- 
catello, Idaho, to compete in the grand finals that year 
for the championship of the world. 

Three wicked outlaws, were saved for the finals, 
Long Tom, Angel and Speed Ball. Rollen drew the 
redoubtable old Long Tom, and Hall the lean black 
plunger, Speed Ball, that has been in many a final con- 
test. To Sundown's lot 'fell Angel, the big bay on 
which Lou Minor rode into the championship in 1912. 
Despite Speed Ball's skyscraping, long, bounding buck, 
Hall was master of him from the start and never for 
a moment was off balance, although he hesitated to 
attempt to scratch him. 

When Rollen, acknowledged as one of the best 
riders in the country and fresh from wins in Kansas 
City and elsewhere, mounted to the back of old Long 
Tom, there was a hush over the stadium. While the 
crowd's sympathies were with Sundown, they knew 
that if Rollen scratched Long Tom and rode him to 
a finish the championship would undoubtedly be his. 
The big sorrel brute pounded across the arena with ter- 

201 



ART IN THE ROUGH 

Good riders on bad horses give the greatest exhibitions ever 
witnessed. Among them none handled themselves in better form 
than Art Accord, now of movie fame, even in the clinch of danger 
beneath a struggling horse, which has deliberately, in fiercest rage, 
thrown himself, in order to crush his rider. If a horse breaks 
away from the wranglers with the blind still on and falls in con- 
sequence, the rider is given another show — if he wants it. But 
a horse with blind off which falls or throws himself and rider 
to earth, is counted fair to both horse and man, for it is part of 
the horse's game. If in spite of this the man still stays and comes 
up in the saddle when the horse regains his feet, meantime having 
observed all the rules as to not pulling leather and keeping his 
feet in the stirrups, it counts for the man. 

In this unusual picture, Art is indeed in the rough but still 
true to his name and calling. Note the remarkable control of the 
rider's hand, still firmly on the rope and away from the saddle 
horn, foot still in the stirrup, but ready to disengage should the 
horse decide to roll over on him. His other leg is undoubtedly 
snuggled under the withers, free from the saddle, yet Art is 
alert, poised, watching every movement of his dangerous adver- 
sary like a panther. He means to stay with him if there's a ghost 
of a chance — ^and he did. 




^ 




LOOKING FOR A SOFT SPOT 

But Not For 

THE GREATEST RIDER OF THE RED RACE 

This is a fine example of showing daylight or playing "peek-a- 
boo" with the saddle. You are now witnessing the "peek," the 
"boo" follows instantaneously. The rider isn't going — he's gone 
already. Even if this rider stayed on, such unfriendly coldness 
toward the saddle would disqualify him. 

No horse of the Round-Up string of buckets ever rode into 
greater fame as "an honest to God" bucker than the redoubtable 
but departed old Long Tom. He was first known hereabouts 
when acquired through a debt by Alfred Smith of Pendleton of 
the J. E. Smith Livestock Co. about fourteen years ago, having 
previously passed around through many hands, which had not 
helped his disposition. For two years the old outlaw was used 
part time as one of seven in a plough team in which, although he 
worked fairly well, he was always flighty. 

One day, someone to save time, tried to ride him, but he lost 
a second or two and then decided his time wasn't worth saving 
but his neck was. No one on the ranch could "stick." This con- 
vinced his owner that he was bad enough to be good enough for 
the Round-Up so they brought him in from his bunchgrass 
range near Pilot Rock, Til Taylor and Sam Thompson looked 
him over and he was bought by the Round-Up. 

Champion caliber riders have essayed to ride Long Tom but 
of the nine who mounted his back, four were thrown and only 
one of the five who stayed dared scratch him. 

Of all riders of the Amerindian race, none have ever ridden 
into such popularity at the Round-Up as Jackson Sundown the 
Nez Perce, of Culdesac, Idaho, nephew of Chief Joseph. He is 
the only Indian who ever wrested the most coveted cowboy and 
Indian trophy — the Round-Up prize bucking contest saddle and 
money for the championship of the world. 

This Sundown did in 1916, making a most sensational ride 
on Angel, shown in this picture. Although wings would never 
even have sprouted on Angel, it was certainly not because of his 
cherubic disposition, he really never needed them to reach heaven, 
as can be seen in this one of his famous sky-scraping bucks. 

It is interesting to mention in connection with two bucking 
champions of the Red and Paleface Races, Caldwell and Sun- 
down, that, the great outstanding features were their clear- 
headedness in out-thinking and out-enduring their horses. The 
secret lay primarily in the unusual care each took of his health. 
Caldwell weighed in at 155 pounds. He had always adhered to 
early, regular hours, avoided over-indulgence of any kind and 
intelligently considered his diet and long runs had been a part of 
his training program. Sundown weighed in at about the same, 
was married and happy, had never touched either liquor or to- 
bacco and made his championship ride at fifty years of age. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

rific force, and the figure of his rider survived the terri- 
ble punishment, but failed to scratch the canny, hard- 
fighting, old outlaw. 

Angel was saddled. 

"Swing to 'im, Injun," called the bleachers. 

"Think yer can stay with 'im?" 

Then in true Indian style, the Nez Perce swung 
gracefully into his saddle from the right side. He 
watched with the slight suspicion of his race every 
movement of the white wranglers for fear they might 
be "gypping" him. His figure, straight as an arrow, 
leaned forward a moment and old Jackson peeked 
over his saddle horn when they went to hook in his 
halter rope, to make sure that it was snapped in the 
lower and proper ring of the halter, then looked at Lee 
Caldwell, who, stepping nearer, sized it up and nodded. 
Old Jackson was satisfied. 

"Scratch 'im from the start. Make a ride in the first 
three jumps," Lee had advised, "and then clamp down 
on him and get set for the rest of your ride." 

"Ugh! me ride him for everything." By which he 
meant he wanted first or nothing. 

When the blindfold was pulled off the big bay piv- 
otted twice and then seemed nearly to reach heaven in 
a series of high, long jumps of the kind which have 
spelled defeat for many a rider. 

Sundown dug his spurs into Angel's shoulders, 
stuck them into his flanks, and then clamped down on 
the third jump as Caldwell had advised. Once set, he 
then goaded him to his worst. It was a supurb figure, 
beautifully proportioned, narrow-waisted and riding 
like a centaur ; his hat, bound with its shimmering, silk- 
en-colored kerchief, swung out and down at every leap; 
poised for an infinitesimal fraction of a second seem- 

204 



THE ROUND-UP 

ingly in midheaven. It was, indeed, a sight fit for the 
gods. Long braids of crow-black hair tied in front 
looped and wafted against the cinnamon brown cheeks 
of the rider; his colored shirt and kerchief flattening 
and billowing against his muscle-articulating torso in 
the movements of the wind; his long-haired black- 
spotted, orange chapps flapped and fluttered, as the 
horse rose and fell, while the wild-fighting beast, fol- 
lowing the inner side of the fence, bucked, twisted, 
high-dived and did his best to break in two. 

On he went 1 It seemed no man could stand the pun- 
ishment, but never for a moment did those long-haired 
chapps pause in their rowelling from withers to rump 
during the entire fight of the ride, nor did the big som- 
brero cease for a moment to fan the air. Sundown was 
indeed riding to win everything or lose everything, on 
his last throw of the dice. 

"Stay with him. Sundown!" 

"Ride 'im, Injun!" 

But Jackson did not hear. The shot rang out. 

"Take him up!" 

Herb Thompson rode alongside and helped Sun- 
down dismount from one of the two most thrilling 
rides ever recorded. The crowd was cheering itself 
into a frenzy. One name was borne out from ten 
thousands of throats. "Sundown! Sundown!" came 
from the grandstand: "Sundown!" echoed the bleach- 
ers; "Sundown!" re-echoed the mounted contingent 
and the Indians. 

"Ugh!" 

It was the epic ride for his race which this son of 
Chief Joseph made in his fiftieth year. It was indeed 
the grand championship in the grand final not only of 
the Round-Up, but probably of the history of his race. 

205 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Jackson Sundown, the Nez Perce, was a fitting repre- 
sentative as the first and only red man to wrest this 
title from the Paleface. 

"What inscription do you want on the silver plate, 
Sundown?" was asked him at the saddlery store as they 
viewed the beautiful, coveted prize-saddle. 

"You put wife's name," was the quiet reply. 

The entire throng lets loose when the three outlaws, 
Light- foot. No Name and big-boned Long Tom are 
led into the arena. There is no question about deci- 
sion as to the champion calibre of the horses. C. C. 
Couch, Bob Cavin and A. E. McCormack are picked. 
Couch draws first and secures the sorrel. No Name. 

Watch that little dynamo! His satanic majesty re- 
fuses to be saddled and strikes, kicks, and bites at the 
wranglers with all the ferocity of a wild beast. If the 
wranglers never had their hands full before, they have 
now. His vicious fore-striking is so intelligent it has 
them buffaloed and they reach very gingerly toward 
his head to slip in the blind, but his foot reach is longer 
than their lanky arms. 

"Or man 'im!" advises the bleachers, and "old man 
him" they do, which consists in throwing a looped rope 
over neck or back, moving him over and passing the 
free end of the rope through the loop and thus roping 
him anywhere one sees fit, for greater control or se- 
curity. Still their efforts to saddle him are futile. 

"Can't yer teach a tame boss?" comes from the 
bleachers. 

A wrangler makes a sudden spring and throws both 
arms around his neck well under the jaw, and with the 
assistance of the others. No Name is thrown, the 
wrangler still maintaining his hold. 

206 



THE ROUND-UP 

''Mercy! Why, what on earth is that man doing?" 

"Chawing his ear, mum," repHes a big sombreroed 
man to the lady visiting from Chicago. 

Couch mounts cautiously, feeHng his way into the 
saddle. No Name concaves his back and crouches close 
to the ground Hke a cat, then shoots from the wran- 
glers like a bombshell, kicks, rears, and plunges in the 
vam effort to loose those clinging legs from his sides, 
finally displaying his temper in vain attempts to reach 
them with his teeth. 

"That's sailin' high !" 

"Another live 'un !" bellows the crowd. 
^ Couch plays his game well and makes a wonderful 
ride; likewise does Cavin, who is up second and has 
drawn Light foot. See that wicked, little sunfisher 
hunch, dive and twist his best, but the Idaho boy does 
not even show daylight! There is little to choose be- 
tween the two rides. They have been executed in the 
same spirit of game sportsmanship as Corporal Roy 
Hunter's bout with a Texas longhorn, that thrilled the 
entire throng and made him perhaps the chief hero of 
that Round-Up. 

"My I shouldn't think they'd let that lame man in 
the arena," remarks our same friend from the Windy 
City, as a bandaged-up cowboy hobbles his crutchety 
way across the open. 

"Why, that's my pal, Bob Hall, mum !— Broncho Bob 
Hall," interpolates her broad-brimmed bureau of in- 
formation. 

"Well, but why do they let him? He mav sret 
hurt." ^ ^ 

"Hurt! He's already hurt, but he's goin' ter see if 
he can't git hurt s'more— See, he's going up If it 
was any other feller he'd be lookin' for a soft spot but 

207 ' 



LET 'ER BUCK 

I'm a figurin' Bob's as like as not ter ride 'im." And 
sure enough, he does. 

Look! They are going to draw for horses for the 
grand finals as this occurs on the grounds in the pres- 
ence of everyone. It's Lee Caldwell, Yakima Canutt 
and Jackson Sundown. These three have ridden 
through with the other twelve or thirteen selected for 
the semi-finals and now have fought their way through 
these into the grand finals. See ! the cowboy drawing 
now is Canutt, that tall and lanky buckaroo with a 
ranginess characteristic of the clan; there goes Sun- 
down, the agile, erect figure you know so well, the third 
is Caldwell, the shortest and youngest of the three. 
What a superbly proportioned body, splendid 
shoulders, lithe and beautifully muscled and the very 
embodiment of health, on whom attention is now main- 
ly focused. The women say he's good-looking and 
even the men admit it. 

Last year he rode in second for the world's cham- 
pionship here, so close to Red Parker, the champion, 
that there was a division of opinion ; but the judges 
decided it. Furthermore some member of the Round- 
Up committee expressed the Pendleton spirit and the 
clean sport of the show when he remarked "Lee, if you 
ever ride into the world's championship at the Round- 
Up you will have to win hands down, because you're 
a Pendleton boy." 

Lee had just come down from Moosejaw, where his 
winning of the All Canada championship had been 
heralded before him; but he had come to the greatest 
of all shows where more men ride and are eliminated 
in the elimination contest than even enter the other 
great shows. 

208 



THE ROUND-UP 

Each in turn, one at a time, thrusts his hand into the 
sombrero held by one of the judges and draws forth 
a tightly-wadded, round, paper pellet. Each opens 
them and now reads his fate. 

Sundown draws Cul-de-Sac and makes a splendid 
ride. Canutt draws Speed Ball and rides equally well. 
Although a little cautious in the way he scratches this 
sunfishing devil-incarnate, he seems sure of second 
money. Two Step from Cheyenne is the horse Cald- 
well draws. 

In the wildhorse race yesterday you recall Caldwell's 
right forearm was broken. When they set it in the 
plaster cast last night the doctor left a little aperture 
in the bandage to facilitate a shot with a hypodermic 
to dull the pain — for he was to ride in the semi-finals. 
The doctor is on hand all right to shoot it to him now, 
while they are wrangling Two Step ; Allen Drumheller 
there, Lee's pal and saddler — has taken hypodermics 
on such occasions himself, you can see he is advising 
against it. 

Although a buckaroo often saddles his own horse in 
a contest, it is an unwritten law that a rider may ask 
any man he desires, to saddle for him — pick him out 
of the grandstand if he wants to. Sometimes a good 
saddler is asked by half a dozen riders to saddle for 
them. 

He's up and away I a perfect ride although Two Step 
the tricky devil with his apparently easy straight-away, 
really puts in to it everything that he thinks of and yoii 
don't. The expression of the rider's face shows that 
the pain in the bandaged arm is terrific, but watch! 
Instead of fainting it makes him so "dad-burned mad," 
that he makes a hair-raising ride, the only qualified one 
on the bucker that season. Lee dismounts, walks toward 

" 209 



LET 'ER BUCK! 

Did Bill Mahaffey 
ride Iz? He sure 
did, scratching him, 
fanning him, and rid" 
ing "slick" with a 
close seat and splen- 
did form. It is 
Let 'er Buck! with 
both horse and man. 
Enough said. 




© W. S. Bowman 



Let 'Er Buck 




W. S. Bowman One of the Greatest Rides Ever Made 



STAY A LONG TIME COWBOY 

You're Against 

ONE OF THE GREATEST RIDES EVER MADE 

Long Tom has always been used as a grand final horse. In this 
picture of Ira de Mille making a splendid ride Old Tom is seen 
up to his old trick of his long head reach, to jerk the halter rope 
slack through the rider's hand or throw him against the saddle 
horn. Of those grand final champions who have ridden this 
splendid outlaw he could buck hard enough for any except Cald- 
well. No one but that rider felt the necessity of scratching him. 
One buckaroo admitted he contemplated it, remarking, "I just 
loosened up my knees a bit and Long Tom wasn't there." 

What is generally conceded as the greatest ride ever made at 
the Round-Up was in 1915, when Lee Caldwell rode in as king 
of buckaroo riders and vanquished Long Tom, king of outlaw 
buckers. He rode him to a finish and as the boys say "sure did 
kick out hair." This picture shows the rider with his broken 
forearm fanning and was taken about the end of the first clean 
away buck, just before the rider's breast bone was broken against 
the saddle horn through too short a hold on rope. This was the 
result of the accident with the snubbing rope. 

Caldwell's marvelous record can be appreciated in part by the 
fact, that in one season's riding he entered nine of the biggest 
contests in the United States and rode into seven first champion- 
ships, one second, and lost out in the third, because his first horse 
did not buck, winding up his season with seven prize saddles and 
$6,000 prize money, clear of all his expenses. 

It was Caldwell's grit, brains, saddlebornness, horse knovvledge, 
and his remarkable ability to coordinate these to the out-thinking 
of the wildest outlaw horse, that as far as is recorded enabled 
him to ride into more world's championships in premier con- 
tests in a given time than any man living. Add to these qualities, 
a pleasing personality, and we have the reasons of his popularity 
with both spectators and buckaroos. But it is that last tribunal 
of judgment "the boys" themselves which has placed Caldwell as 
the top-notcher of their clan in the bucking game and that means 
the greatest living rider the world knows today. 



LET 'ER BUCK 

the line of saddles. His left hand steals to nurse his 
right which is hurting so bad Lee a second time re- 
fuses hypodermic, remarking, "I'm too mad to take it 
— I want to be a little mad — a man always rides better." 

"L-e-e C-a-l-d-w-e-1-1 r-i-d-e-s L-o-n-g T-o-m," 
clearly enunciated Fred McMonies through the great 
megaphone announcer from his crow's nest on the pole 
top. 

A great roar of satisfaction goes up from the bleach- 
er and grandstand. They are the five magic words 
which the crowd wants more than anything else to 
hear. They have always wanted him to draw Long 
Tom in the grand final to see if he dares scratch him. 

It is barely five minutes since Two Step was taken 
up, and now Caldwell is ordered to tackle Long Tom. 
He walks to where big Bill Ridings and the other 
wranglers are cautiously tucking the blind under the 
halter leathers of the big brute holding him snubbed. 
The snubbing rope, see, is run through the fork of the 
snubbing horse's saddle; then it passes through the 
halter of the outlaw beneath his jaw, and now the end is 
brought back and made fast with a couple of half 
hitches around the saddle horn of the snubbing horse. 
Caldwell pauses, and, as is his custom, sizes up his 
worthy antagonist. He has that remarkable ability of 
sizing up a horse just by looking at him, and knowing 
within two or three inches how much he will have to 
let out or take in his cinch before he saddles on. But 
for the first time he is absolutely deceived. Allen 
Drumheller has the saddle on, but Caldwell finds the 
end of the cinch comes only to the middle of his belly, 
and they have to "off saddle" again. Caldwell com- 
ments to Drumheller that old Tom has the greatest 
lung capacity of any horse he has ever ridden. 

212 



THE ROUND-UP 

Caldwell knows he is up against it and watches every 
movement like a cat. He impatiently motions, says 
somethnig, and the wranglers turn Long Tom's head 
a bit^ more to the southwest toward the grandstand. 
It IS direction," Caldwell is thinking, that which will 
head him just between the judges. He believes he can 

• 'T ^" "^"^ °^ ^°"^ T°"^- He wants no doubt 
in the judges mmd, as to what he is doing There is a 
bit of a struggle, then Lee snaps out a curt order He 
does not want the horse frightened. There is a differ- 
ence between frightening a horse and getting him mad • 
frightening him has a tendency to make him blunder' 
in his own movements, because, as Lee said once "A 
norse like Long Tom does a lot of thinkin<^ " 

Everyone knows Caldwell is tremendously hi<rh 
strung, trained so to the minute that a mere nothing 
can set him off the handle; but Allen Drumheller 
knows his man, knows Lee's every idea, so he makes 
every movement count. Everything is timed to a 
n^ety when he tiglitens the cinch and fastens the latigo. 

horse r'' ^^r '° ^^""^^^ ^ "^^" ^' ^^'^" ^^ a 
lorse. He passes the halter rope to Caldwell, who 

urns his stirrup out gently with his left hand, then 
inserting his foot, seizes the horn with the same hand 
and swings lightly into his saddle. Even though one- 
handed, he avoids any pull on the saddle when leaving 

erkTr fV ' "' "'"r'"^^ ^"^^''"^ horses it is this 
jerk that often causes them to lunge or start. 

^ He s going up!" says a man. 

"Ain't he sweet?" chimes in a woman. 

1 he great audience rose as one man. Lee settles 
himself in his saddle as nonchalantly as though he migh 
be testing his stirrup's length instead of being turned 
loose to vie for the world's championship on the tough- 



LET 'ER BUCK 

est brute Oregon can secure. Lee knows he is mount- 
ing one of the best horses in the world when 
Drumheller hands him the halter rope. See how 
carefully he takes a last look over everything and then 
deliberately at the judges. The judges nod. The 
rider wants at least two of the judges to see everything 
he does, readjusts himself in the saddle and his rein in 
his left hand, snuggles his feet right up to his heels 
in the stirrup — for a single foot out disqualifies the 
rider. 

"Turn him round," he snaps to the wranglers 

The rider knows that though the old outlaw is stand- 
ing apparently square, he is really "tense up" to "throw 
back." Turning him changes this position or "un- 
tracks" him. The blind is off. He is loose. 

The wranglers spring to one side, one of them jerks 
off the blind and frees the end of the snubbing rope. 
The great brute springs into the air and the rider's 
legs shoot forward to scratch towards his neck. 

"Let 'er buck 1" comes from all sides, at this first 
jump. But the initiated know something is wrong. 
There is an unnatural throw to Long Tom's head 
towards the wranglers on his left — the free end of the 
snubbing rope has traveled too fast through Tom's 
halter and has whipped into a knot around its own 
bight and caught, causing this violent, unnatural jerk 
leftward. Caldwell's halter rope is on the right of the 
horse's neck. The sudden jerk of his head to the left 
will force him to either give way, be pulled forward, 
or let the line slip through his hand. This will cause 
a change of rein, and when the horse recovers will 
make so much slack he will have nothing to steady him- 
self with, and his ride will be hopeless on a horse like 
Long Tom. 

214 



THE ROUND-UP 

Caldwell is jerked violently forward, and to prevent 
being unbalanced, is allowing the rope to slide through 
his hand. See it go — a full foot and a half. Wrench ! 
Good, the snubbing rope is free. He is readjusting his 
hold by taking up the slack with the weakened grip of 
two fingers of his broken arm. The sudden release 
from the snubbing rope makes old Tom throw his nose 
skyward more than usual — an old trick of this bucker 
— and gives Lee more slack than he wants, which when 
now taken up gives him too short a hold. 

All this occurs while the horse's forequarters are in 
the air, and during this first jump Caldwell has not 
only adjusted the rope, but has pulled off his hat with 
which he now fans him, gripping it with the two fing- 
ers of his broken right forearm. 

"Look out cowboy when he comes down," yells an 
old buckaroo beside you. 

With hindquarters snapped up, old Tom now puts 
his head earthward, at the same time giving one of 
his peculiarly violent kicks, his eyes show white, down 
he comes ker-plunk. Caldwell already pulled and held 
forward to the front part of the saddle, is now thrown 
violently against the saddle horn. Crack! goes the 
boy's breast bone, and breaks three inches above the 
point, knocking the wind clear out of him. 

"Will he stay with 'im?" His breath is gone — his 
head swims — stars shoot — everything cants in a swirl 

of blue For a fraction of a moment he seems 

to be gone. If you know Caldwell you know if he is 
going to fall, he'll reason he cannot strike any harder 
by scratching old Tom, besides he knows he will be 
making a real ride when he hits the dirt. See ! he's 
letting 'er buck now for all there is in it ! 

"Stay with 'im, Lee!" came the old cry, as Long 
215 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Tom broke like a boomerang into that terrific pound- 
ing, bounding buck, which, if it does not unseat most 
riders in the first three jumps, shakes their dayhghts 
so that they welcome hitting the ground, it is so much 
softer. 

Whang I in the back with the cantle of the saddle. 
In Long Tom's bucking nearly a dozen men have left 
old Tom's saddle unconscious on this account and 
never knew why they left it. The big, hill-climbing 
demon snorts, even groans with rage in the effort to 
shake the clinging man thing from his back. 

Caldwell lets another foot of rope slide through his 
hand on the next jump. 

"Ride 'im cowboy!" yell the buckaroos. 

The rider heels withers and toes rump with his 
spurs. 

"That's raking him !" 

His spurs are dull, but a year from now I reckon 
there'll be scars eight inches long on old Tom's hide. 
See, at every jump the old outlaw deliberately jerljs 
his head and takes more rope, a few inches at a time. 
If the rider's arm was straight out and the rope tight, 
there would be no use of any man's trying to hold it. 

Three! — four! — five! — fifteen tremendous, vicious, 
man-killing jumps you count, spiced with every art of 
the old bucker's repertoire. Look, he's circling toward 
the corrals, still inside the fence. 

Caldwell's breath is coming back a little, things have 
ceased swimming. You know he is badly handicapped 
through the blow on his chest and a rope too slack 
to balance himself with. But his determination to 
make the greatest ride of his life is as evident as is 
the determination of the brute beneath him that he 
shall not 

216 



THE ROUND-UP 

It is the slack now that bothers. He realizes after 
the horse was freed and after the first buck, that if he 
took it up with the other hand he would be disquali- 
fied. But he is a heady rider. 

Quick as thought on the uprise of a buck, he takes 
the "fuzz" of rope (the frayed end) in his teeth — 
which many have seen him do in exhibition rides when 
he held both hands up to make a hit. There is no rule 
ag-ainst this. He now slides his hand down and is set 
for a new fight as he approaches the fence. He knows 
by the animal's actions whether he will go over it or 
crash through. 

"Wow! Wow! Wow! Stay a long time, cowboy !" 
yells the mounted contingent, lined behind the outer 
fencing in the gap between the bleachers. Springing 
skyward. Long Tom clears the fence with a pretty 
jump. Caldwell is sitting "straight up" in a way no 
man has ever sat Long Tom before. He knows he has 
him now. It gives him a chance for a flowery show, 
see he's throwing a lot of bouquets. 

"Scratch 'im, Pete," yells a mounted buckaroo with 
a grin, as the big sorrel weaves and bounds his rocky 
way by the horsemen. 

Caldwell now makes the fur fly in a way that is un- 
believable. Every previous rider has stopped at raking 
the famous outlaw with spurs. It has been generally 
admitted that the man did not live who could do that 
and still sit on his back. 

Caldwell now confines his rowels to the great hump- 
ing shoulders to make him flinch — circle — before the 
ki-hooting hellian, who now seems to have gone plumb 
cultus, smashes and tears him to pieces against the 
posts and wire of the high outer fence of the track. 

He does it barely in time; down the track by the 
217 



LET 'ER BUCK 

yelling, yipping mounted cowboys ; along by the whoop- 
ing Indian bucks, shrill ki-yi-ing women and scream- 
ing papooses; on around the track flies the outlaw, 
semi-circling the entire eastern end, bounds and bucks 
his way, pounding the earth in a manner that must 
rattle loose the teeth and bones of the lithe, boyish 
figure of Caldwell, who still miraculously riding true 
to form, through 

"Flip, flop, dive or hunch. 
Just sticks him like a burr." 

See there! — Half way round to the grandstand 
something has happened which never happened before. 
The hitherto undaunted king of buckers is breaking 
into a run — surrenders — he's been ridden out. But 
even running Long Tom is hard to ride, and every step 
by this time is a buck to Caldwell weak as be is. 

"You've got 'im, Lee," came from bleacher and 
grandstand. 

Bang! went the judge's pistol. "Take him up!" 

Herb Thompson rides alongside, Lee hands him his 
rope as is his custom and a great help to the herder. 
Pandemonium breaks loose as Thompson, himself a 
superb rider, snubs up the first-time-defeated outlaw 
monarch and swerves him around. Caldwell musters his 
remaining strength and springs off to one side, landing 
twelve or fifteen feet away, as is his unique habit in 
dismounting from bad horses. He figures he has won 
and would rather take a chance with a sprained ankle 
than a kick. In the midst of the terrific uproar of 
cowboy yells, shouts of his name and cheers mingle, 
he walks a bit unsteadily until he reaches the fence 
then leans against it. 

218 



THE ROUND-UP 

But the end is not yet. Canutt and Caldwell have 
been scheduled to ride Spitfire and P. J. Nut. No one 
believed any man could scratch Long Tom and stay 
on — besides the program must be carried through. 
Spitfire, a vicious little mare, is already over there in 
the arena. The wranglers brought her in before the 
saddle was scarce pulled from the vanquished Long 
Tom. Lee is still resting against the fence, but he is 
already ordered to ride again. 

Short as the respite is, it is here in the final test 
that his marvelous reserve strength, the conservation 
of his splendid health due to his intelligent training, 
tells. His recuperative reaction is immediate, and 
although Spitfire puts in an unusually, fast, tricky 
ride, in comparison to Long Tom, she undoubtedly 
felt like a feather bed. Just the same, Lee feels about 
ready to go home when he dismounts. 

Again the unexpected happens. Canutt knows he 
has second money won. The ride on Long Tom can- 
not be excelled. Preferring to keep what he has got, 
which is his privilege, he withdraws his ride. 

"Then it's up to you, Lee. Ride him !" you hear the 
judges say. 

This is too much for Drumheller, who has been 
watching over his pal, like a cat with one kitten, and 
his objections are energetic if not poetic. Lee pauses 
a moment, a bit white. Then his dark eyes snap. 

"Yes, ril ride 'im; and then you can bring out your 
whole damn bunch and Pll ride 'em all." 

And ride 'im he does — that chunky, powerful, con- 
centrated extract of horse meat, P. J. Nut, which if 
you scratched a match in his ear he'd set the prairie on 
fire. He fans him — he scrapes him — and another 
astonishing ride is credited to the greatest living rider 

219 



HELL BENT ! 

This picture of hell bent and back again hardly describes this 
picture or the sensations its rider must have felt when this hell- 
diving demon "broke in two." The rider is Lee Caldwell of Pen- 
dleton, the bucker is Flying Devil. The ride was made at Miles 
City, Montana, which brought this peer of bucking riders the 
Montana State Bucking Championship. The picture was taken by 
Marcell and is a remarkable bucking picture, for it is seldom one 
catches real action on a real tough horse. 

"Lee," I said one night when he dropped in to see me, from 
his ranch hidden away back up the Canyon. "How about Flying 
Devil, was he as bad as he looks?" 

"Well, I'll tell you — I consider him the hardest horse I ever 
rode. You see, it isn't the horse that sunfishes or twists that 
makes it hardest for one to ride, it's the punishment he gives the 
rider. Flying Devil was an outlaw and came from a mountain 
range either in Montana or Idaho and I consider mountain-bred 
horses the strongest. Until Flying Devil was broken down in his 
knees there was practically no direction. You know, a bucking 
horse's muscles will indicate his action — if he's going to sunfish 
to the right for instance, his muscles contract accordingly and 
give you the cue, but he didn't, he was all pure strength and 
speed — every move he made was just so sudden, there was no 
spring, no cue. You see," and a retrospective smile passed over 
his face as he pointed to the extreme southwest corner of the 
picture, "this is where he was when he started this buck, but fac- 
ing the other way — you see where he is and how he's facing now. 
He's the only horse I ever rode that could apparently jump 
straight backward as far as he could forwards." 





Marceli 



Hell Bent! 



THE ROUND-UP 

of today. But half through the ride Lee's tactics 
change. The grandstand doesn't notice it much, the 
old buckaroos do. Only Lee knows why he changed 
his tactics. "I realized," he tells Drumheller after dis- 
mounting, "that having to ride another horse with the 
hurt in my arm getting me so loco mad I was likely 
to be uncautious — so I clamped down a bit." But he 
rides into as pretty a finish as has ever been made. 

The deafening uproar is only exceeded by a greater 
one. Wave after wave undulates around the great 
oval as though to shake the very structure from its 
foundations. The whole colossal saucer goes wild and 
even the grandstand jumps up on the seats and throws 
things at one another. 

Caldwell has won the rough-riding championship 
of the world hands down, as the committee has re- 
quired. He has ridden everything in sight, including 
four of the worst outlaws that could be gathered to- 
gether — one immediately after another — within the 
space of forty-five minutes — and has scratched them 
all. But more inconceivable yet, he has done what no 
man has ever done before — he has scratched that 
king of buckaroos, Long Tom, from start to finish, 
from wither to rump and — "ridden him" — with broken 
bones in arm and chest thrown in. 

"How do you feel, Lee?" 

But Lee was looking toward the outlaw corral : 

"Gad !' he ejaculates, "how he did come to pieces 1" 

THE CRASHING CLIMAX 

The end of those wonderful three days of thrills 
and spills comes with the great finale — the wild-horse 
race. 

221 



LET 'ER BUCK 

Over against the dull glow of the West from where 
the half dust storm is now sweeping across Central 
Oregon, filling the air with that peculiar mellow haze, 
a denser cloud suddenly sweeps from the corrals as 
twenty wild horses, never before saddled, sweep like 
a tornado around the track. 

From in front of the grandstand, twenty bronzed 
cowboys leave as many helpers each at his assigned 
place, and sweep like a second tornado around to meet 
this stampeding herd of unbroken "bunch grassers." 
There is a clash. Some collide, a few go down. In 
this fighting, plunging, rearing, kicking chaos some 
rope their horses and eventually work them over to 
their stations in front of the grandstand. Others dash 
about the arena in mad pursuit. Off to the left is a 
roped horse on one side of the fence, the roper on 
the other; directly below you a dozen fight to wrangle 
and saddle the horses already caught — and all are 
caught eventually. 

There in that outfit, the saddling is all but accom- 
plished. A rope breaks and regardless of surrounding 
wranglers, riders and helpers, the escaping one dashes 
madly through, knocking over a helper, thereby setting 
free another horse. Here, a tenacious little brute 
swings helper and rider into the heels of one of his 
companions. There rider and helper fall in a grim 
tussle with their horse, and for a moment it is hard to 
distinguish which is which, in the pyrotechnics of 
kicking, struggling legs, but one of the wranglers 
catches the regulation chunk of ear in his mouth and 
the animal is conquered. 

There a roped animal madly describes a circle, trip- 
ping and catching men and saddles with the rope, but 
no phase is too serious for the crowd to lose its humor. 

222 



THE ROUND-UP 

As one cowpuncher takes a spill and reveals a bald 
head, a voice yells out above the hullabaloo : 

"Look out you don't burn the top of your face 
there, Bill." 

The crowd roars a short laugh of approval. So 
they plunge, rear, bite, squeal, kick and strike, roll 
and crowd, but it is a marvel how in the midst of this 
mass of untamed horses and agile, strong men of 
iron nerve, any escape this melee of teeth and 
hoofs. Somehow they do, save for a few minor 
injuries. 

But no ! something's happened — a mounted wrangler 
has been yanked over sidewise — horse and all — a ter- 
rific crushing fall, by the powerful wild thing he's 
roped. See — a half dozen cowboys spring to his aid; 
they know horses and men too well not to know some- 
thing serious has happened. The limp figure, in its 
black-spotted Angora chapps, is gently placed on a 
stretcher — and they carry him to the first aid tent. 
But it is too late ; a big fellow draws his sleeve across 
his eyes. — It's little old Winnamucca Jack — he's ridden 
into the Happy Hunting Grounds. 

The last horse is saddled, the signal is given to 
mount. With only a halter rope for a rein they at- 
tempt to ride and guide their horses around the track. 
Each man mounts his steed — or tries to — and in this 
hell-let-loose cyclone of centaurs, each endeavors first 
to ride and then to guide his wild-crazy, bucking 
animal around the track to the corrals. 

Such a scene may indeed warrant the expression of 
one visiting onlooker who qualified it as a "god- 
snapped movey." 

Blindfolded, with pent-up ferocity, the untamed 
outlaws feel for the first time, the man-things astride 

223 



LET 'ER BUCK 

their backs. The gunny sack blindfolds are jerked 
from the animals' eyes. 

"Let 'er buck!" Twenty horses are leaving undone 
no twist, turn, or jump to shake their riders. It's 
saddles to cinch-holes that a man, unless he is of the 
champion breed, "hits the dust" about the time he 
starts out. 

Not a rail of the fence in front of the grandstand 
is left. Crash! Smash! it is ripped out in sections. 
One horse, not content with this, takes wire fence, 
post, and all, and lands in the near-by bleachers. 
Others are fast smashing into kindling wood distant 
portions of the arena fence, some bucking, others 
running away. 

The hundred-thousand-eyed throng sees them from 
every angle. For three whole days the vast audience 
has breathed their thoughts and exclamations with one 
accord. Now for a full twenty minutes this vast mass 
of humanity has stood physically and mentally on tiptoe 
before this stupendous climax, and is now swept by 
the swift wind of a human passion, taut as steel, biting 
as a knife. At last Nature breaks, and, lets loose 
and the big arena literally vibrates with a cloudburst 
of pent-up energy. It eventually subsides, the crowd 
for a space stands spellbound where it had been stand- 
ing for the last half hour. 

As the dust settles, some still linger to drink in the 
peaceful scene as the last horseman leaves the empty 
arena. September saffron silhouettes the rolling hills 
of eastern Oregon, night is silver dimming the still- 
ness of things, the great red lantern of the lowering 
sun sheds its orange-red on the silent oval, the range 
cries die away, and on your memory, a red-letter day 
is painted. 

224 



THE ROUND-UP 

The Round-Up means more than a great, hazardous, 
thrilHng spectacle. Old men — yes, and old women — 
looked out through a mist of years and read between 
the lines of this page, torn from a chapter of the Old 
West, the struggles of a life which formed an im- 
portant part in the making of our Nation. By the 
stranger and the young too, the story is read, more 
vividly than any brush can paint or pen describe. For 
three days they had "let 'er buck." For three days 
Pendleton had lived in the full spirit of the open, brave 
humor - loving, dauntless, empire - winning, nation- 
holding, riding, fighting generation of the clean rnen 
and women of the Great West. 

I stood beside a silent figure on a silent horse : "Old 
Hank" Caplinger looked wistfully toward the night- 
dimmed skyline. Perhaps a phantom of the days gone 
by blurred the scene for the old scout, and he saw the 
old range just before the night herder sings to his 
herd, and perhaps he saw 

Ten thousand cattle straying. 

As the rangers sang of old, 
The warm chinook's delaying, 

The aspen shakes with cold. 
Ten thousand herds are passing, 

So pass the golden years. 
Behind us clouds are massing. 

Like the last of the old frontiers. 

A little distance away, under the hush of blue night 
which pervades everything, the camp-fires of the Uma- 
tillas glow red among their lodges, within which dimly 
silhouette the shadow forms of the red-skinned inhabi- 
tants. They, too, have lived again in the open the 
marvelous, color-reeking carnival of their race. Their 

15 225 



LET 'ER BUCK 

tepee smokes of sage-brush and greasevvood burn an 
incense to the god of the range and freedom; then 
their fires dim, the Cottonwood's soft, feathery masses 
stencil darkly against the silver-oxide of night. Crawl- 
ing slowly above them, the crescent of the new moon 
shadows its pale calm on the stillness of things. 

It is all a chapter taken out of the history of the 
old West — a chapter which every American with red 
blood in his veins should read in the real before it 
passes by and, like the old West, forever disappears 
on the horizon of time. 

But to understand, one must look with one's own 
eyes on these things. Then you will feel the stir and 
the thrill of life of these golden lands of hopes and 
achievements, where man extends a generous and 
hospitable welcome to those who cross his trails ; it is 
a spectacle which makes you go away with a bigger, 
finer feeling toward life, and a genuine respect and 
appreciation for the quiet, modest manhood and 
womanhood who have "taken chances," have risked 
limb and even life at times in their sports of daring 
and skill, that you may see how their fathers once 
struggled in earnest against unequal odds in order to 
attain the Winning of the West. 



226 



THE BUCKERS' OWN TABLE 

GIVING A COMPARATIVE RECORD OF THE SUCCESS OR FAILURE OF SOME OF 
THE LEADING ROUND-UP BUCKERS OVER A PERIOD OF FOUR YEARS 



Year 



Rider 



Whistling Annie 



Hot Foot 



Smithy 



Long Tom 



Lightfoot 



I9I3 


Jack Joyce 


Thrown 




Jay Miller 


Thrown 




vSam Brownell 


Rode 


I9I4 


Dan Thompson 


Disqu. 




Henry Webb 


Rode 


I9I5 


W. H. Chandler 


Disqu. 




Dave White 


Thrown 




John Muir 


Pulled 


I9I6 


Ed. McCarty 


Rode 




G. Ghangrow 


Thrown 




Ben Dobbins 


Thrown 


I9I3 


Fred Heide 


Thrown 




Pete Wilson 


Thrown 




W. W. Matthews 


Thrown 




C. C. Couch 


Rode 


I9I4 


L. Mosbey 


Thrown 




H. Wilcox 


Disqu. 




J. H. Strickland 


Rode 


I9I5 


R. S. Hall 


Rode 


I9I3 


Andrew Jack 


Rode 


I9I4 


Silver Harr 


Thrown 




Tex White 


Thrown 


I9I5 


A. Skeels 


Rode 




Yakima Cannutt 


Rode 


I9I6 


Jas. Shuster 


Thrown 


I9I3 


Tex Daniels 


Pulled 




Ed. McGilvray 


Thrown 




A. E. McCormack 


Rode 


1914 


Red Parker 


Rode 


I9I5 


Ira de Mille 


Rode 




Earl Simpson 


Thrown 




Lee Caldwell 


Rode 


I9I6 


Bob Beebe 


Thrown 




Rufus Rollen 


Rode 


I9I3 


Ed. McCarty 


Rode 




Harry Brennan 


Pulled 




Bob Cavin 


Rode 


I9I4 


Paul Hansen 


Thrown 




N. McKay 


Pulled 




John Judd 


Rode 


I9I5 


Johnson Barnhart 


Rode 




Jack Sundown 


Rode 


I9I6 


Everett Wilson 


Pulled 




Earl Manderville 


Rode 



Result Rides Throws 



> 3 



228 



Casey Jones 



Butter Creek 



Old Colonial 



Wiggles 



Angel 



M'Kay 



Crooked River 



Mrs. Wigcs 



Year 

913 
914 



915 
916 



913 



914 
915 

916 
915 



913 



915 
916 

915 
916 



913 
916 

913 
914 

913 
914 
916 



Rider 

W. S. MacHafifey 
C. Plant 

B. Gotlief 

C. McKinley 
Ed. McCarty 
Dell Blancett 
Jack Sundown 
Clay Porter 

W. E. Powell 
Earl Smith 
H. S. McCrea 
Art Acord 
Cliff Gerard 
Jim Massey 
Roy Jones 



Henry Warren 
Ed. McCarty 
916 Yakima Cannutt 
John Maggert 



Harv McCrea 
Henry Webb 
Lee Caldwell 
Bill Cover 
J. B. Woodall 
Simon Jack 
M. Thompson 
Jack Sundown 

Fred Heide 
R. S. Hall 
Rufus RoUen 

D. Henderson 
Jack Sundown 

G. E. Attebury 
Bill Gerking 
Joe Hayes 

Claud Franklin 
Henry Webb 

E. A. Callison 

Ben Corbett 
Hoot Gibson 
Jack Hawn 
Jack Fretz 
Dell Blancett 
Allen Holt 
Frank Smith 

229 



Result Rides Throw 

Rode 

Thrown 

Thrown 

Thrown 

Rode 

Rode 

Rode 

Rode 



Disqu. 

Pulled 

Rode 

Rode 

Thrown 

Rode 

Rode 



Pulled 1 
Rode ^ 

Rode I ^ 
Thrown] 

Disqu. " 
Rode 
Rode 
Disqu. . 
Rode ' 5 
Rode 
Thrown 
Rode 



Rode 

Rode 

Rode 

Thrown 

Rode 



Rode ] 
Rode } 2 
Thrown] 



Pulled 

Rode 

Disqu. 



Rode ] 

Thrown | 

Rode 

Rode }■ 6 

Rode 

Rode 

Rode 



THE RODE AND THROWN TABLE 

BEING A NUMERICAL RECORD OF THE ENTRIES, WITHDRAWALS (PULL-OUTS), 
RIDES, THROWS, AND DISQUALIFICATIONS OF THE ROUND-UP BUCKAROO 
CONTESTANTS OVER A PERIOD OF EIGHT YEARS. 



September ii September 12, Friday 



September 13, Saturday 



Thursday p.m. Morning Afternoon Afternoon Afternoon 

Elimination Elimination Elimination Semi-Finals Grand Finals 
Contests Contests 



Entries 
Pulled Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Horse Fell 
Rode 



Not available 



40 
5 



I C. H. 



I P. L. 



Entries 
Pulled Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 



September 24 
18 
I 
8 
I P. L. 



1914 

September 25 



39 
16 

3S. S. 

4 P. L. 



I P. L. 



14 



September 26 



Pntries 
Pulled Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 



September 23 

IS 
3 
4 



191S 

September 24 

18 

Not available i 



4 

2 P. L. 



September 25 



3 

I P. L. 



Entries 
Pulled Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 



September 21 
16 



1916 

September 22 
16 
3 
3 
2 P. L. 



September 23 



Entries 
Pulled Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 



September 20 
17 
4 
4 



September 31 
19 



16 



September 22 



Entries 
Pulled Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Rode 



September 19 

23 
3 

S 
o 

16 



I9I8 

September 20 
26 



Not available 



16 



Septembei 31 



230 











1019 






September iS 




September 19 


September 20 




Thursday, P.M. 

Elimination 

Contests 


Morning 

Elimination 

Contests 


Afternoon 
Elimination 


Afternoon Afternoon 
Semi-Finals Grand Finals 


Entries 
Pulled Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Horse Fell 
Rode 


21 

3 

^P.L. 

8 


38 

IS 

6 

2 

I 

14 




23 

IS 

4 



8 
1920 


IS 
4 
3 


S 3 




September 23 


Se 


ptember 24 


September 25 


Entries 
Pulled Out 
Thrown 
Disqualified 
Horse Fell 
Rode 


II 

2 
2 
I 
6 


12 
4 

3 
2 

I 
3 




13 
I 
4 


8 


13 

3 


10 4 



Pulled out means withdrew. 
C. H. indicates changed hand. 



P. L. indicates pulled leather. 
S. S. saddle slipped. 



On the afternoons of the first and second days (Thursday and 
Friday) of the Round-Up the riders contest for places in the semi- 
finals. A certain number of buckers are ridden and a certain num- 
ber of buckaroos are eliminated. Because of the great number of 
contestants, sometimes numbering over two hundred, it is necessary 
to hold an elimination contest on Friday morning as well. A fair 
number of the entrants pull out which indicates the number of star 
buckers put on at the Round-Up. Only sixteen riders having the 
highest rating come through these elimination contests. They are 
selected for the semi-finals which are the first bucking contests 
held on the afternoon of the last day (Saturday) of the Round-Up. 

From the sixteen contestants in the semi-finals four star riders 
are chosen. Three only are selected to compete in the grand finals 
which follow the semi-finals. The fourth man is held in reserve to be 
put in to compete for third place in case any one of the first three 
chosen are thrown. 

As yet, — and this is a remarkable tribute to the jugdment of the 
judges — the fourth man has never been used, as a grand final rider 
has never been thrown in the entire history of the Round-Up, though 
many failed to scratch their mounts. 

These three riders then draw from a hat the names of the horses 
they are to ride, contesting respectively for the first, second and third 
bucking horse championships of the world. 

231 



THE BUCKING-TIME TABLE 

SHOWING THE LENGTH OF TIME THE BUCKAROO RIDERS STAYED IN THE 

SADDLE DURING THE ELIMINATION CONTESTS, THE SEMI-FINALS AND 

FINALS IN THE BUCKING HORSE CONTESTS AT THE I917 ROUND-UP 



Elimination Contest 
Friday a.m., September 21, 19 17 



Entry 








Time in 


No. 


Rider 


Horse 


Result 


Seconds 


75 


S. D. Sloan 


Bear Cat 


Refused ride 




62 


Isaac Williams 


Mexicana 


Rode 


15 


154 


Jake Luke 


Jack Sundown 






54 


Bob Hall 


Aragon 


Rode 


2I§ 


146 


Fred Harding 


Crooked River 


Rode 


I8f 


15 


Silver Han- 


Okanogan 


Thrown 


15I 


45 


Lee Mathis 


Oregon Steamboat 






153 


Isaac Anthony 


Poncho Villa 


Rode 


18 


133 


Dan Thompson 


Weiser 






160 


Bert Gatliff 


Windmill 






136 


L. R. Kuydendall 


Snake 


Rode 


19 


35 


Pete Wilson 


Shelall 


Rode 


30 


38 


Fred Nicholas 


Buckskin B. 


Rode 


I3f 


143 


Paul Venable 


Kaiser 


Thrown 


15 


138 


Francis Narciss 


Brown Jugg 


Rode 


Hi 


82 


Dave White 


Tango 






155 


Mack Guant 


Izee 






74 


Scoop Martin 


Hot Lake 


Rode 


I6| 


76 


H. C. Nieter 


Powder River 


Rode 


15 


28 


Harold Ahalt 


Hesitation 


Rode 


18 


113 


W. Whitmore 


Spanish Molly 


Rode 


25 


34 


John Muir 


Gipsy 


Rode 


I6| 


10 


Rich Shockley 


Buggs 


Rode 


21 


51 


Tom Baize 


Introduction 






102 


Wm. Brown 


Butter Creek 


Rode 


II 


2 


Bill Baker 


King Spain 


Rode 


151 


40 


Andre Jack 


John Icewater 


Rode 


19 


97 


B. H. Murray 


Bill Buck 






96 


Jim Lewis 


Hot Foot 







232 



Entry 








Time in 


No. 


Rider 


Horse 


Result 


Seconds 


80 


C. Manderville 


Spit Fire 






159 


Lee Monah 


North Powder 


Rode 


14 


126 


Ora de Mille 


Sad Sam 


Rode 


22 


135 


Geo. French 


Squaw Creek 






7 


Jim Lynch 


High Tower 


Fell 


22 


39 


P. Scoggins 


Dick Rawlins 


Rode 


i9i 


115 


P. Pierce 


Scar Legs 






lOI 


D. Heyler 


Black Diamond 


Rode 


7f 


122 


G. Fletcher 


Nutcracker 


Rode 


I5f 


157 


P. Bymer 


Hellfirejack 


Rode 


I2f 


53 


Ed. McGilvray 


D. Robbin 


Rode 


m 


46 


E. Bouchard 


Lookout 


Thrown 


9 


20 


B. Ewing 


Sundance 


Rode— Pulled 


i7f 


104 


J. Judd 


P. J. Nutt 


Rode 


I5f 


26 


S. Luton 


Bango 


Rode 


22 


120 


M. Thompson 


Wardalopa 


Thrown 


7 


86 


P. Shippentower 


Dimple 


Rode 


15I 


41 


W. Cain 


G. Minthorn 


Rode 


i6i 


13 


E. Newquist 


Sunnybrook 


Rode 


I5f 


32 


T. Grimes 


Carrie Nation 






18 


B. Anderson 


Calgary 


Rode 


15 


158 


Dave Myers 


Monkey Wrench 


Thrown 


5 


145 


Narcise McKay 


Lightfoot 


Rode 


13 1 


79 


A. Spadden 


Bill McMurray 


Rode 


14I 


27 


Wilkins WilHams 


Corbett 


Rode 


28 


73 


Clarence Plant 


Wiggles 


Rode 


14 


81 


Kenneth Barrett 


Cyclone 


Rode 


i8f 


127 


Dock Osborn 


Smithy 


Rode 


19 


161 


Earl McCuUough 








99 


Ed. McCarty 


Culdesac 


Rode 


17 


156 


Dan Condon 


Grave Digger 


Rode 


15 


17 


Bill Ridings 


Headlight 


Thrown 


9 


137 


John Maggert 


Long Creek 


Rode 


I5f 


8 


Yakima Cannutt 


McKay 


Rode 


8 


151 


John Spain 


Whistling Annie 


Rode 


I7i 


105 


Tom Douglas 


Mrs. Wiggs 


Rode 


r6| 


64 


Dave White 


Tom Stevens 


Rode 


I8i 


60 


Jay Talbot 


Fire Alarm 


Rode 


14! 


114 


Bob Bunke 


Angel 


Rode 


26f 


70 


Ben Oakes 


Old Colonial 


Rode 


23i 



233 



SEMI-FINALS 
September 22, 191 7 



Entry 








Time in 


No. 


Rider 


Horse 


Result 


Seconds 


104 


John Judd 


Wiggles 


Rode 


I8| 


53 


Ed. McGilvray 


Okanogan 


Thrown 


4 


2 


Bill Baker 


Jackson Sundown 


Rode 


12 


99 


Ed. McCarty 


Sundance 


Rode 


15 


85 


Paul Hastings 


Bear Cat 


Rode 


13 


133 


Dan Thompson 


Smithy 


Rode 


Hi 


114 


Robert Burke 


Lightfoot 


Rode 


10 


64 


Dave White 


Oregon Steamboat 


Rode 


i7i 


8 


Yakima Cannutt 


Corbett 


Rode 


16 


no 


Leonard Stroud 


Whistling Annie 


Rode 


I5I 


54 


Bob Hall 


Monkey Wrench 


Rode 


23 


35 


Pete Wilson 


Speedball 


Rode 


13 


146 


Fred Harding 


Casey Jones 


Rode 


12 


12 


Tex Smith 


Bango 


Rode 


I5f 


39 


Paul Scoggins 


Aragon 


Rode 


15 


34 


John Muir 


Wardalopa 


Rode 


i5i 


34 


John Muir 


Tom Stevens 
FINALS 


Rode 




8 


Yakima Cannutt 


Culdesac 


Rode 


I4I 


64 


Dave White 


P. J. Nutt 


Rode 


14 


54 


Bob Hall 


Angel 


Rode 


i7i 



234 



TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT 

For terms relating to "harness" see under "bit and 
bridle" and "saddle" ; to riding under "bucking-horse 
riding" ; to kinds of buckers under "bucking" ; to any 
kind of horse under "horse" ; to any kind of range 
cattle under "steer" ; to saddling and "taking-up" 
horses under "wrangling." 

BAD LANDS — alkali, clayey or desert land, poor or uncultivable. 

BAD MAN— outlaw. 

BAND— a very small herd of horses, cattle, sheep or men on the 

range. 
BEEF CRITTER— a cattle old and heavy enough to be sold for beef. 
BIT AND BRIDLE 

Bit — comprises mouthpiece, bit cheeks and chains. 
Bridle — comprises bridle cheeks or side leathers; brow band over 
eyes; throat latch, going around neck under ears and curb strap 
imder jaw, all of which comprise the headstall which, with 
reins included, is considered a bridle. 
Halter — a simplified headstall but usually of heavier leather with- 
out a brow band, used for tethering or leading, for which 
purpose a halter rope is attached. 
Hackamore — comprises a bosal or rawhide loop noose over horse's 
nose with a light strap attached to each side and going over the 
head. A small light 5-16" rope to give strength is attached to 
the knot, under-chin end of the bosal by special knots called 
"theodore" knots. From this junction this rope extends be- 
yond the theodore knots and is used as a leading rope. 
Hackamore Rope — is a rope by skillful looping of which a hacka- 
more form of headplate is improvised. 
BREAK RANGE— running off the range. 

235 



TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT 

BREAKING — conquering and taming and training a horse by force 

and fight. 
BOYS — cowboys or hands on a rauch. 
BRONCHO BUSTER — a cowboy who rides and breaks wild or 

unbroken horses. 
BUCKAROO — or a broncho-buster — a cowboy who can ride and 
then some. AppUed generally to the riders who take part in 
the Round-Up. 
BUCKER— see "horses." 
BUCKING — gyrations of a horse to unseat a rider. 

Bucking Straight Away — bucking that consists of long jumps 
straight ahead without twisting, whirling or rearing. Usually 
not difficult for a buckaroo to ride. 
Sunfishing — a movement which some bucking horses have, con- 
sisting particularly of a posterior twist, alternately left and right, 
as the animal bucks, so that the horse's body, when it rises in 
the air is in the form of an arc. A sunfisher is generally a very 
difficult animal to ride. 
High Roller or High Polar — a horse that leaps high into the air 

when bucking. 
BUCKING-HORSE RIDING OR ROUGH-RIDING— riding un- 
tamed horses that buck. 
Riding Slick — consists in riding with the usual cowboy equip- 
ment, i.e., saddle, chaps, and spurs and without aid of hobbled 
stirrups, locked spurs or bucking rolls. 
Slick Heels — riding without spurs. 

Locked Spurs — spurs in which rowels have been fastened so they 

will not move. When these spurs are held firmly in the cinch 

it is impossible for a horse to unseat its rider. They are also 

barred. 

Throwing the Steel — synonymous with raking and scratching. 

Using the spurs. 
Scratching — the act of a buckaroo while riding a bucking horse in 
using his spurs to make the animal buck its hardest. In 
scratching, the buckaroo must necessarily allow the legs to be 
free and thus take more chances. If a broncho-buster scratches 
a bad horse, he is generally making a good ride. 
Raking — synonymous with scratching. Generally applies when 
rider gives his legs a free sweep, rolling the rowels of his spurs 
along the horse's side from shoulder to rump. Sometimes 
called scratching fore and aft. One of the highest accomplish- 
ments coveted by the broncho-buster. 
236 



TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT 

Riding Straight Up — the rider of a bucking horse sitting erect in 
his saddle, one hand holding the halter rope and the other high 
in the air "fanning" with hat. 
Close Seat — a seat in the saddle which is steady and firm. An 

important consideration in the eyes of the judges. 

Riding Safe — sitting tight in the saddle, the legs tightly gripping 

the horse's sides and the spurs generally set firmly in the cinch. 

Riding Sloppy — sitting loosely in the saddle, allowing body to 

wave and flop about in response to the gyrations of the animal. 

It is sometimes called "grandstand " riding but is not considered 

good form in a contest. 

Seeing Daylight— a term applied when daylight can be seen 

between the rider and the seat of his saddle. 
Pulling Leather — holding on to any part of the saddle, usually the 
horn to steady oneself. A rider who pulls leather is in dis 
grace and is disqualified as surely as is one who is thrown. Most 
cowboys will allow themselves to be thrown before they will 
pull leather. 
Choking the Biscuit — nearly synonymous with "pulling leather." 
Sometimes called "choking the horn." Consists in catching 
hold of the horn of the saddle in order to keep from being thrown. 
Biting the Dust — cowboy term for being thrown from a bucking 
horse and usually follows after "choking the biscuit." It also 
often happens to many hungry for adventure on the hurricane 
deck of a bucking bronc. 
BUNCH — applied to a small herd of horses or cattle or group of men. 
BUNCHGRASSERS — range horses living on bunchgrass. 
CATTLE — a general term sometimes used for both bovines and 
equines; in lieu of the singular case the same word can be used. 
CATTLE RUSTLER— cattle thief. 

CATTALOE — a hybrid offspring of a buffalo and a cattle. 
CAVY — a band of saddle horses used on a round-up. 
CHUCK "WAGON — cook wagon which accompanies an outfit of 

cowboys or others working on the range. 
COWBOY or VAQUERO (Sp.) — cowhand; ranch-hand, one of that 
adventurous class of herders and drovers of the plains and ranges 
of the western United States who does his work on horseback. 
He is famed for his hardiness, recklessness and daring. 
CRITTER— any man or beast. 

CUT OUT — to work out and separate animals from the herd. 
FORTY FIVE — a .45 caliber revolver, usually a Colts or Smith and 
Wesson. 

2S7 



TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT 

GENTLING — any gentle method of taming an unbroken or 

untrained horse. 
GRISETTE— ask the A. E. F. 
GYPPING — fooling or deceiving. 

HIGHWAY ROUND— the natural way of living and dying. 
HITCHED — a pack, a horse or anything tied up with a rope. 
HI-YU-SKOOKUM — Indian jargon used by Cayuse and Nez Perce 

tribes meaning "very good." 
HOBBLES — a short rope or any arrangement used for tying the fore 

fetlocks of a horse near together to prevent straying. 
HONDA — the mettle piece inside the " eye " splice of a lariat through 

which the noose of the rope travels. 
HORSE RUSTLER— horse thief. 
HORSES — often pronounced "hoss" or "hawse." 

Broncho or Bronch (K or without h) — a Spanish word applied to 

the small native Mexican horse meaning rough and wild, now 

applied to any untamed range horse. 
Cayuse — an Indian pony; also the name of one of the tribes of 

Indians now located on the Umatilla reservation, members of 

which participate in the Round-Up. 
Cuitan — Indian name for pony. Also called by cowboys bob-tail, 

fuzz-tail and mustang. 
Outlaw — sometimes called a "bad one" is a horse whose spirit is 

unconquerable and which can never be broken to ride. He 

always fights and always bucks. The animals ridden in the 

Round-up bucking contests are outlaws of the worst type to be 

found in the world. 
Slick-Ear — sometimes used synonymously with maverick but is 

usually applied to unbranded horses. Comes from the practice 

among early day horsemen of slitting the ears of their horses 

to distinguish them, so a horse with smooth or unslit ears was as 

good as unbranded. A slick-ear can no more be claimed than a 

maverick. 
Wild Horse — a native of the range that has never been ridden or 

broken. He may be a bucker or may not. The animals ridden 

in the wild horse race each day have never had more than a 

rope on them since the day of their birth. Many of them have 

seen but a few men in all their lives. 
HOBBLED STIRRUPS— see under saddle. 
JERK WATER — applied to a little, insignificant place where trains 

stop only to take or jerk on water for the engine. 
LASHER — man who handles the lash or whip on a stagecoach. 

238 



TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT 

LARIAT or LASSO — often called "rope" or "lass rope" made of 
plaited rawhide or hemp with a small loop or an eye splice 
shrunk over a brass honda at one end through which free end is 
run, thus forming the noose. 

MOUNTING PONY EXPRESS— mounting to the saddle without 
the aid of the stirrups. Consists in the rider grabbing the horn 
of the saddle, starting his horse on a gallop, bounding two or 
three times by his side and leaping over the cantle into the 
seat. So called after the fashion of pony express riders in 
mounting to save time. 

MUCK-A-MUCK — Cayuse Indian jargon for food. 

MUSTANG — see under horses. 

NESTLER — homesteader or squatter. 

OUTFIT — a term applying to the equipment of man, horse, group 
of men, ranch or a large concern, or to the men, horses them- 
selves and to the complement of a ranch or concern or any 
group or part thereof. 

'ONERY — possibly an abbreviation for honorary, meaning mean, 
vintractable or worthless. 

PASSENGER — in stagecoach race the cowboys who ride to balance 
coach to keep it from capsizing at the turns. 

PARD — pardner, partner. 

PERALTA — the band or herd of cattle rounded up for cutting out. 

PLUM CULTUS — expression meaning as bad as they make them, 
cussedest; cultus comes from the Indians. 

POSSE — band of men organized to run down a man or a small band 
of men usually outlaws or thieves. 

QUIRT — see under saddle. 

RAN A BUTCHER SHOP AND GOT HIS CATTLE MIXED— stole 
or rustled cattle and was found out. 

RED EYE or NOSE PAINT— whiskey. 

ROPE— see "lasso." 

ROPIN'— lassooing. 

ROUGH-RIDING— riding a bucking horse. 

SADDLE — western saddle, cowboy saddle. This saddle is a distinct 
type comprising the following parts: 
Tree — a frame of wood covered with rawhide. 
Horn — formerly of wood, now of steel, covered with rawhide. 
Fork — the front part of the tree and supports horn. 
Gullet — curved portion of under side of the fork. 
Cantle — raised back to the saddle seat. 
Side Jockeys — leather side extensions of seat. 

239 



TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT 

Back Jockeys — top skirts the uppermost broad leathers joining 

behind cantle. 
Skirts or Suderderos — (old Spanish) broad under leathers which 

go next to the horse. 
Stirrup Leathers — broad leathers hung from the bar of the tree 

and from which stirrups hang. 
Strings — underlying purpose to hold saddle leathers together but 

ends are tied and left hanging, which adds to appearance as well 

as usefulness in tying on things carried. 
Fenders or Rosideros — broad leather sweat protectors swinging 

from stirrup leathers. 
Rigging — middle leathers attached to tree connecting with and 

supporting cinch by latigos through rigging ring. 
Cinch or Cincha (Sp.) — a girth of horsehair, leather, cotton or 

mohair strapped under horse's belly to cinch or hold the saddle 

on. 
Rubber Cinch — an elastic cinch used in relay races to save time in 

changing saddles. 
Cinch or Cincha Rings — on each end of the cincha. 
Latigos — leather straps hanging from either side from the rigging 

ring, other ends run through cinch rings used to tighten up 

cincha. 
Nigger Catcher — small slotted leather flap on one or both sides of 

saddle, usually at base of cantle or fork or both. Purpose is to 

hold long free end of latigo through slit when cinched up. 
Stirrup — foot support usually of wood bound with iron or brass or 

raw hide. Sometimes all iron or brass. 
Hobbled Stirrups — stirrups tied to each other by a leather thong 

running under the horse's belly. With stirrups hobbled, it is 

almost the same as if the rider were tied in the saddle and there 

is no play to the stirrups. Hobbled stirrups are not allowed in 

bucking contests except that some women riders are allowed to 

use them if they choose. 
Tapideros or Taps — leather stirrup covers which serve as protec- 
tion against cold and rain, especially through wet bnish or 

grass, from i8" to 20* in length. They are mostly for effect, 

though some claim the stirrups ride better. In summer they 

are discarded. 
Quirt — a short heavy plaited pliable leather riding whip used by 

cowboys. 
Seat — the easiest thing to find on a saddle but the hardest to keep. 
SCRUB-TAIL — see under horses. 

240 



TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT 

SEEING DAYLIGHT— see under rough-riding. 
SHORT CUT — hanging or shooting a man summarily. 
SLICK-EAR — see under "horses" and "steers." 
STEER — young male of the ox kind, usually with wide-spreading 
horns especially raised for beef. In the western United States 
one of any age. Range steers are dangerous to men on foot. 
Maverick — an unbranded bullock or heifer. Said to be derived 
from the name of a Texas cattleman who neglected to brand his 
cattle. 
Slick-Ear — sometimes applied to steers. See under "horses." 
STEER BULLDOGGING — a practice among cowboys consisting of 
wrestling with a steer barehanded. Usually the cowboy rides 
along-side the racing steer, leans over, seizes the horns of the 
animal and swings to the ground. Then, using the horns as 
levers, he twists the head of the steer until its muzzle points 
upward, falls backward, thus throwing the steer off its balance. 
In exhibitions the cowboy fastens his teeth in the upper lip of 
the steer, releases the horns and holds the animal prostrate with 
his teeth. 
Hoolihaning — another form of bulldogging consists in forcing the 
horns of the rvmning animal suddenly into the ground and thus 
turning the animal a complete somersault. However, this form 
is more dangerous to man and beast and is most cruel, inasmuch 
as the animal's horns are frequently broken. 
STEER BUSTING — popular name for roping a: \ throwing a steer 

with a lariat single handed. 
STEER ROPING — the art of capturing, busting and hogtieing a 
range steer single-handed. 
Hogtieing — tieing together of the forefeet and one hind foot after 
a steer has been lassoed and thrown. The process must be quick 
in order to prevent the steer rising after he has been thrown. 
STICK-UP-MAN — highwayman, stage robber. 
STRAYS — cattle or horses which have mixed in with a herd but do 

not belong to it. 
STUFF — applied to a lot of cattle, horses, etc. 
WANTED — said of a man desired by the law. 
WILD BUNCH — any untamed herd of men, women or horses. 
WRANGLING — rounding up, catching and saddling range horses. 
Wrangler — a buckaroo who handles the buckers in the arena and 
assists the rider in saddling his horse. This wrangling is often 
the most difficult and dangerous part of the task in subduing a 
wild horse. 

241 



TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT 

Snubbing — the act of tying the horse's head to some fixed object, 
usually through the fork and the horn of a saddle on another 
ho rse. 

Pick Him Up! or Take Him Up! or Cage Him Up! — cries given by 
the judges to mounted helpers or "pick up men" after a horse 
has bucked itself out and meaning to overtake and catch the 
animal so that the rider can dismount and the saddle be removed. 
WIND-UP, THE — of the year's range work is the round-up. This is 
the annual gathering of cattle from the ranges for branding ot 
young stock and selection of beef for market. In the old days 
large outfits of cowboys with their cook or "chuck" wagons 
covered hundreds of miles of territory. Some of these round- 
ups lasted several weeks, usually winding up with a jollification 
in which all the cowboys participated in their most popular 
pastimes and contests. The Epic Drama of the West in its 
cowboy and Indian carnival, epitomizes the whole gamut of 
range life and sounds the spirit of its clarion call in The Round- 
Up Slogan— LET 'ER BUCK! 



242 



Ji Selection from the 
Catalogue of 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 



Complete Catalogues sent 
on application 



Handbook of 

Yosemite National 

Park 

Compiled and Edited by 

Ansel F. Hall 

U- S. National Park Service 

Much has been written of " The Valley Incom- 
parable," and the 1 100 square miles of Scenic 
High Sierra which have been set aside as a play- 
ground for the people. 

But there still remains the task of satisfying 
the thousands who seek definite information con- 
cerning its history, ethnology, botany, geology, 
camp- and trail-craft, natural history, and related 
subjects. No one man can be master of all these 
branches of knowledge, so the editor presents 
this collection of articles each by an eminent 
authority. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons 

New York London 



Prairie Flowers 

By 

James B. Hendryx 

Author of "The Texan" 



When Tex Benton said he'd do a thing, he 
did it, as readers of " The Texan " will affirm. 
So when, after a year of drought, he an- 
nounced his purpose of going to town to get 
thoroughly " lickered up," unsuspecting Tim- 
ber City was elected as the stage for a most 
thorough and sensational orgy. 

But neither Tex nor Timber City could 
foresee the turbulent chain of events which 
were to result from his high, if indecorous, 
resolve, here set down — the wild tale of an 
untamed West. 

A well-known writer, who has served his 
apprenticeship in the cow country, said the 
other day, " I like Hendryx's stories — they're 
real. His boys are the boys I used to work 
with and know. His West is the West I 
learned to love." 



G. P. Putnam's Sons 

New York London 



The 

Night Horseman 

A Tale of Wild'-riding Herdsmen and 

Outlaws, and their Deeds of 

Daring and Deviltry 

By 

Max Brand 



A well-known English critic said of The 
Untamed — "There are in it passages of ex- 
traordinary power — the whole conception is 
very bold." And no less bold nor less 
powerful is its sequel The Night Horseman. 
Once again we ride in company with "Whist- 
lin' Dan," the fearless, silent, mysterious 
chap who shares the instincts of wild things, 
and once again we engage with him in his 
desperate adventures, hair-breadth escapes, 
and whirlwind triumphs. A novel thrilling 
in its reality, which will not be put down 
by lovers of exciting fiction. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons 

New York London 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



016 096 586 1 



